Lessons in Love
by 16magnolias
Summary: It has come to my attention the previous summary has become inaccurate. New summary: Story contains action, adventure, confused Sherlock, supportive John, sassy, pregnant Mary, sweet Sherlolly, minor OCs, stunningly evil Irish villains, tension and tenderness, frustration and fondness, mysteries and mayhem, and above all, lessons in a crazy little thing called love. S3 spoilers.
1. In Which Class Begins

**So, friends, I've never published a fanfiction anywhere before. I've been Sherlocked, though, and need an outlet. Let me know what you think, please. :) **

**Also, I realize my writing style is a bit - run-on sentence-ish, but that's kind of the feel I'm going for. Let me know if it's terribly distracting.**

**Also (again), I've seen this on everything I've ever read here, so I'm think I need this:**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of its characters. Or plot. Or anything related. **

Our story starts on a park bench in a seedy part of London. Well…the story really started twenty-seven years ago with the birth of Ian Conners, followed shortly by the birth of his sister Josephine, and then a surprise pregnancy fourteen years after that. But we'll start here. It's pleasantly warm, and the air smells faintly of pollution. We see a familiar figure. You know him as London's only consulting detective.

Let's take a look at him. He's still dressed in a tux, though the jacket is off and the bowtie loosened around his neck. His fingers are steepled in his lap, and he is thinking. He left the reception of John and Mary Watson roughly…three hours ago and is now, currently, on a park bench in a place where he won't be reminded of weddings or brown eyes or babies or the ends of certain eras. This is as good a place as any to begin a story, so…let's begin.

Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was, at the moment, preoccupied with sentiment. He was at a precipice higher, darker, and far more important than the ledge of St. Bart's would ever be. Since the fall - the countless minutes, hours, days, of searching and hunting and being hunted had culminated into the two years he'd been away - he had…changed. Become more…emotional. And he was finding that for the most part, he didn't mind. Oh, he'd always had_ some_ emotions – anger, satisfaction, boredom, and pride being the four most common. Easily suppressed, easily manipulated into something productive. And there was always the little tango with guilt and sadness that occasionally plagued him. He'd found though, that since he'd opened himself to more…feeling… that happiness was a pleasant enough emotion, much better than the simple satisfaction or contentment he was used to 'feeling'. Fear was unsettling, but the relief that came after was a kind of euphoria in its own right. Interesting. He always knew, scientifically, of course, that emotions affected the physical body, and he despised the uncontrollable reactions that occurred on the infrequent occasions that he was scared or worried, but he found that the physical reactions to feeling happiness, joy, pride in others, and dare he admit – love, were also very pleasant. There were still things he didn't understand, things he couldn't analyze, though. Especially about love.

He thought about the people the he knew loved him, and, that he assumed he was supposed to love back. _Did he? Was Sherlock Holmes capable of love? And…was he worthy of it?_

John loved him. He knew this without a doubt. But why had love made John tackle him to the ground, choking him, punching him solidly in the face, the night he first revealed he was, in fact, not dead? It proved that love hurt, that he had hurt John, but also, that love could withstand being hurt. It was a powerful thing. Being rejected by John had hurt, though it was uncomfortable enough for him to admit that. It surprised him. And being forgiven - when John had called him his best friend, asked him to be his best man…he felt loved. He knew that shockingly warm, pleasantly tingling sensation hadn't been numbness, or paralysis, brought on by sudden onset diabetes or any other imagined malady. He had felt loved. Strange, that love could make you do things like drink out of a coffee cup contaminated with human eyeball.

And there were so many types of love. John loved Sherlock, and John loved Mary, and Mary loved Sherlock too. In hindsight, he realized that he hadn't been 'taking John for a run' at all before the wedding – she had read his nerves and emotions like a teenage girl's diary, and – clever girl – had known how to trick him into distracting himself, and John. It took a bit to admit it, but he liked her, and appreciated her – yes, he loved them both. It would be different with her in the picture now, too, and the sadness and loneliness he'd felt hours before leaving the wedding returned full force. _Enough of John and Mary's love. Let's study another subject. _

Mrs. Hudson loved him. She accepted him, accepted his obnoxious, ridiculous habits and obsessions, and had prodded him, nagged him, like his mother should have – but that woman had given up years ago. Mrs. Hudson, however, was hardened from years of being married to a very bad man – and her stubbornness matched his own at times. She was very fond of him, and he'd had to admit – he was fond of her. Her insistence that she was "not his housekeeper", and yet she always came with a cuppa and biscuits when it was needed (and oftentimes when it was not needed). She loved him with the exasperated love of a mother, and yes, he loved her too. Soundly assured of this fact, he closed that door and opened another.

Lestrade. There were indeed many different forms of love, and this one was – lighter, somehow, than the others. Sherlock knew that this…strange emotion called love was not the same for Lestrade as the love he felt for Mrs. Hudson, and it was certainly not what he felt for John or Mary. It was not on the same level – it was not as deep or as fond or as connected – but it was still there. A grudging respect, with the urge to help each other, to protect him from Moriarty's bullets, the way Lestrade had tried to protect him from…well, from the world at large. From being involved again in drugs, with criminals. Lestrade cared about what happened to him. Was that love? His lips twitched into a small smile, eyes closed, remembering when he had asked Lestrade for help. Of course, Sherlock meant help writing John's best man speech, but when Lestrade showed up with the cavalry (two dozen armed policemen, a SWAT team, a fighter jet and a helicopter), Sherlock realized he probably should have been more specific. There was love in friendship, and in family, and there was love in his friendship with Lestrade.

Family. He knew he did not love his parents. Not like he should. He tolerated them, appreciated that they had tried, and attempted to forgive them for giving up so easily. He and Mycroft were not easy to get along with, and he supposed being regularly outsmarted and out-thought by your toddler was not a pleasant situation to be in. He would always protect them, of course – and thankfully Mycroft saw to that more often than Sherlock ever did – but the bond that tied him to them was blood, not…_feeling_. He felt obliged to them, but he did not…_love_ them.

Mycroft. Something was going on with Mycroft. Perhaps he was dealing with _sentiment_ tonight as well? He was always so guarded, and for Mycroft, so predictable…but his recent attacks on sentiment, usually beneath him, and his exercise habits…could there be a chance that Mycroft was struggling with _feeling_ as well? Possibly. He knew he could rely on Mycroft…for some things. Life and death things. But he still wasn't quite ready to forgive him for waiting so long to rescue him from his torturers. Family love, Sherlock decided, was much more difficult and complicated than friendship love.

_Don't forget Molly, you twit._ John's voice interrupted his musings on his brother. _You know, the one who helped you fake your death? Ring a bell? _Sherlock sighed internally. He didn't really want to think about Molly tonight. She was his friend. He definitely acknowledged that. She was a special, intelligent, trustworthy friend. He just didn't feel comfortable admitting that he…loved her. _Why not? _She's a girl, John. It was a lame excuse and Sherlock knew it. Apparently, so did internal John. _So's Mrs. Hudson, and you don't get tongue-tied over her._ Shut up John. _Wait a minute…do you LOVE love Molly?_ No. He gagged the John in his head, and took a moment to distance himself. He paid attention to his body. He heartbeat was steady, not racing, and as he analyzed the rest of his body, he was relieved to find that he was showing no signs of physical attraction at the thought of Molly Hooper. Feeling safer, he slowly ventured into that room in his mind palace labeled 'Molly'.

But wait. It was labeled 'Molly'. Not 'Molly Hooper'. Everyone else's room was labeled with a first and last name. Martha Hudson. Mycroft Holmes. John Watson. Mary Morstan – now Mary Morstan-Watson. Why was Molly just…Molly? His head tilted just a bit as he tried to understand why her room was simply Molly. Was it because he was waiting to learn the last name of her fiancée? Was he going to replace "Hooper" with whatever unfortunate moniker her copycat boyfriend would bestow on her?

No, he decided. Mary was still Mary Morstan-Watson. Why then was his Molly just Molly? He froze, very, very still on his park bench. _That's right mate, run through that thought again_, internal John encouraged, almost gleefully. So, Sherlock did. Slowly. Why. Then. Was. His. Molly. Stop. _His_ Molly? Oh no. This was not all right. This was…she was not _his _Molly. His pathologist, perhaps. His friend, yes. His _Molly?_ No. How could he be possessive of her? Why would he be? When he first met her, she was mousy, intimidated, easily manipulated. Bright, and very, very good at her work, and he respected her for that. He might even go so far as to say he preferred her company, as long as she was quiet and not stammering around him like a schoolgirl. And then she deduced him. She deduced his emotions and he realized that she was more than just a bright, respectable pathologist. She had a good heart, and she cared for him. Not just infatuation…she _saw _him, and she still loved what she saw. And though he didn't understand why, he appreciated it. A lot. She trusted him completely, and he had learned to return that trust. When he was away…he missed her. So yes, he loved Molly Hooper.

But blast it all! There were so many different kinds of love, and it was a subject he had not thought to study so intensely before. So what kind of love was it? Internal John sighed in his head. _You really don't understand love, do you Sherlock. Not a bit._

No, apparently, he did not understand it a bit. He needed more data. He needed to watch, experience, observe more frequently. He had research to do.

Little did he know that an excellent specimen was to present itself, in the life and relationships of Josephine Conners.


	2. In Which Love is a Battlefield

_Chapter Two, in Which Love is a Battlefield_

Josephine Conners hummed along to a song on the radio as she scrubbed a baking sheet. She loved biscuit day. She loved baking, but especially biscuits. Not cooking. Cooking was unpleasant, but baking was lovely. Finishing the pan, she rinsed it and put in in the draining rack, brushing a piece of auburn hair out of her olive colored eyes with her arm. As she did, the corner of a pale cream-colored envelope in the pile of mail caught her eye. _Hmmm. Looks like an invitation, maybe?_ Curious, she dried off her hands and opened the letter. Inside was a single piece of paper the same color as the envelope, and on it, typed in a curly font, was the following:

_Ian has a secret. _

_Sarah Jane as well._

_I'll keep her as insurance_

_Don't worry, I won't tell._

_A.C._

She read through it once, confused. As she reread it, she began to tense involuntarily. An uneasy feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach and turned the paper over. On the back, simple instructions:

_I'll call with instructions._

_When I say "I", I of course mean one of my employees._

_Take care._

She began to shake a bit, and grabbed her phone. Probably just a stupid prank. Wasn't the news always full of stupid stuff like this? Still…better to be safe, and all that. She dialed Sarah's school number, a public school a few blocks from their flat. "Hello, Prior Weston Primary. How may I help you?"

Jo breathed for a minute, and then answered. "Mrs. Bertram? Yes, thank you. It's Jo Conners, Sarah Jane's sister."

"Oh, yes, dear, how can I help you?"

"Um…is…is Sarah all right? No one…I mean…nothing has happened today, has it?"

"Well, I did hear Mr. Matthews telling Headmistress Jameson that she corrected him again in mathematics today, but other than that, no…is everything all right?"

"Yes, um…just…I'm coming to pick her up today, okay? Don't…don't let anyone else pick her up today. Just me."

"Well, of course. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes. Fine, thanks. I'll see you later this afternoon."

"Wonderful, have a good day Ms. Conners."

After they had said good-bye and hung up, Jo wrung her hands for a few moments, then grabbed her bag with her keys and phone. She was putting her coat on and trying to dial her older brother's contact number when she received a text from an unlisted number.

Warily, she opened it and licked her lips nervously.

You'll receive the call in 1 minute. Do not leave your flat until then. Answer, or someone will die.

Jo snorted nervously. _Someone? _How vaguely ominous._ How does this person know I'm still in my flat? What is going on? What secret? Does this have something to do with Mum and Dad? _The minute ticked by as she shakily pulled on her gloves and hat.

Her phone rang, and she stared at the unlisted ID before swallowing thickly and answering. "H-Hello?" she said hesitantly.

"Josephine Conners. Thank you for answering." The neutral deep voice on the end assured her that if she did as instructed, all would be fine. She was to go check Sarah Jane out of school early and then go to Postman's Park, where further instructions would be related.

"Wait – what? Why – why should I listen to you? I don't even know what this is about. Who are you?"

"My employer wishes to remain anonymous at the time, although he generously signed his initials on your first greeting." _Greeting? Seriously? _"In order to assure you that we are serious, we would like to remind you that _Roses are red _and your parents are dead." He said the last few words with a sick kind of glee, and Jo's blood turned to ice in her veins. Those words – those stupid children's rhyme words - were on a greeting card that was found on her mother at the time of her parent's death, along with a rather nasty alternate version of the rest of the poem.

"Wha-?" She breathed, finally.

"You've received your instructions. No police, or we'll just take your sister from the school. As you can see, we've got access to your phone, and will be monitoring any calls you make. We'll also be watching you, so no payphones, duckie. Hold it together. You'll need a clear mind. We'll see you at the park in an hour. He's being quite generous. You've got time to ask your neighbor to watch Lucy. You'll be gone a while."

"Luc-?" But she was cut off. The caller had hung up. She stared at the phone for a minute, and then shivering, called for their cat, Lucy. In a daze, she knocked on her neighbor, Mrs. Lestrade's door, gave her their cat, and began to whiz through a plan in her mind.

She had an hour, and it only took 15 minutes to walk to the school. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking, and a name flashed into her mind. _Molly Hooper. Greg Lestrade._ _St. Bart's._ Time to go.

* * *

Molly was finishing paperwork on a deceased Mrs. Bernice Gingham, 78, and Sherlock was studying wax and hair samples under a microscope. John was leafing through a book of eyebrow sketches at Sherlock's request (more like demand), trying to remember the exact shape of a woman's eyebrow who'd fled the scene of a murder two days earlier.

Suddenly, a young woman burst through the double steel doors, clutching her left arm, extremely pale. "Molly you need to call Inspector Lestrade I need help."

Molly looked up, surprise and concern etched across her face. "Wha-who?"

"It's Josephine Conners. I watched your flat a while back, fed Toby. Please call Greg." Her words were fast and she was shaking like a leaf. John looked up, concerned.

Sherlock looked up as well. He'd been bored, and he was a bit on edge lately because his 'sentiment experiment' observations were not going as planned. It turns out, acts of love are more spontaneous and not always conveniently or easily observed.

With a neutral expression and clear gray-green eyes, he studied the young woman in front of him. 5'5". Not thin, not overweight. _Normal. _Female, 22 years old. Shoulder length auburn hair, olive green eyes. Pet cat, tabby, judging by the hairs on her coat. One older brother, one younger sister. The creases in her pants mean someone in military taught her to fold. Male, and not a father, older brother. Older brother in the military, but not in combat. Technology, or intelligence, maybe? _ Boring. _Clothes and earrings cheap, baked cookies earlier, not at school but has evening job, she has to earn money and take care of a younger sibling, so parents are gone, probably dead. _Common. _Plays piano and guitar. Plays piano well, the nearly permanent indentations of her fingertips mean she practices properly and a lot. Does not play guitar well, just learning, teaching herself, because she's holding it wrong and no one's corrected her. _Ordinary. _Her left forearm, maybe wrist, is sprained or broken, but she came to see Molly, despite being in a hospital. Obviously in pain, but not seeking treatment, and…hmmm. It appears she's hurt it on purpose. _Interesting._ He sat up and listened, forgetting the slides in front of him. He'd narrowed it down to two salons anyway, and this eyebrow murder case was practically solved.

"Yes, of course, but – what's wrong?" Molly asked as she began to text Lestrade. "Your arm – is it - _broken_?"

"Yes, well, sprained at least, but I did that on purpose," she dismissed urgently. "Please, he needs to get here as soon as possible. Please – please…" she looked at the ceiling, as though praying.

"On purpose?!" Molly and John both stared at her aghast.

"Yes, please." She waited anxiously, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she waited for a reply from Molly.

"He'll be here in 10 minutes tops. I remember you now, Jo. Your sister is Sarah Jane? Tell us what's wrong." Molly asked, setting her papers aside.

John walked up to her. "Er…right. John Watson, doctor…mind if I take a look at that?"

"Oh…yeah, sure. That's…that's good. Good that. Thanks." She gingerly held her arm out. "Watson? So…" her eyes scanned the room, and lit on Sherlock. "You're Sherlock Holmes." She sounded…relieved?

A smile flashed on his face, and as he stood up to take a better look at her, he rubbed his palms together vigorously. "This is at least an 8, John. About time. Tell me, Jo, your plan for saving your sister."

She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and nodded. "Um…yeah. Right. Deductions. Okay."

She explained about the card, the call, the instructions, the possible relation to her parent's death. Sherlock filed separate facts away in his head – relevant to case, and relevant to sentiment. He could review the actions of the girl in front of him and their relation to _love_ later.

Jo was still explaining. "He said no police, but I know Greg, I'm scared…I can't…I mean, it would be stupid to just do as they say…my brother's in Iraq and I can't…we don't have anyone else. Greg's our neighbor, and he's nice, and…they're monitoring my phone. I couldn't call him myself – he's police. I know you're friends, Molly, and I was praying you worked today…I…well…St. Bart's is on my way to Sarah's school…luckily. My plan was to pretend to fall and hurt myself right outside…and be forced inside by a bystander…I fell the first time but I wasn't seriously hurt enough, and they're watching me…so I…kind of…rolled into the street and got hit by a moped. On purpose. I've broken my wrist before and knew it might break again so I tried to land on it hard and it worked. The driver insisted I come in and when I did I found you. It took some…sneaking…but…oh!"

Greg came in and stared at Jo, whose (luckily, just sprained) arm was being wrapped by John. "What on earth is this then?" He eyeballed the group, suspicion on his face.

It took five minutes to convince him that it was a legitimate emergency.

It took fifteen to form a plan.

It took ten to reach the school, and five to get Sarah out.

Once out, they were escorted into Lestrade's police vehicle.

Everything went off without a hitch.

Until it didn't.

* * *

They were on their way back to Scotland Yard, and an emergency call came in. A mugging. Lestrade was closest. He cursed under his breath, and apologized to the two sisters sitting in the backseat. It would only take a moment, and John was sitting in the back with them, so they'd be fine.

And that's when the hitch happened. Sherlock knew when they arrived something was wrong. The mugger and victim were frozen, as though waiting for an audience. The mugger was yelling, of course, but as soon as Lestrade got out of the car, the victim pulled his own very dangerous looking gun out from under his person, and the two of them opened fire.

Apparently, they were surrounded, as more shots hit the back of the car.

Curses and shrieks filled the car for the span of three seconds, after which John managed to get the girls down, and pull out his own revolver. He almost gagged in horror at the sight of red splattered across the driver's side window – had Lestrade been hit?

And there, in the front passenger seat, was Sherlock, sitting perfectly calm, and smirking. _Smirking_.

"Sherlock, get _down!_" hissed John. "What do you think you're _doing?_"

"Paintballs." Sherlock replied, amused.

"_Paintballs?!_" John said incredulously.

He turned, and indeed, the red dripping down the driver's side and rear windows was _not_ blood, but red paint.

At this, the girls popped up from their cramped positions on the floor of the car.

Sarah Jane smoothed her blouse and smirked herself.

"Josephine," she said sweetly. "What _exactly_ did the note and phone call say? Tell me the _exact_ words."

Josephine sat for a moment, thinking. A look of confusion and worry was soon replaced with a look of absolute fury. "He didn't." She muttered. "He _wouldn't_."

Jo turned to look at Sarah, and in tandem, they agreed: "He _did_."

Josephine was out of the car before John could stop her, and Sherlock finished a text before joining everyone outside the car.

It had obviously been…well…honestly, a prank trap? A trap prank? They were indeed surrounded by five very fit, very well-protected men, in an alley out of sight of the public eye. They were all wearing vests and masks and cargo pants, and were all holding paintball guns fixed to look like real weapons, and they were all grinning at the odd mix of people in the center of the group.

One of the men stepped forward, and pulled off his mask, and grinned all the wider. "D'ya miss me, girls?"

Their reactions were…interesting.

Sarah Jane was a peculiar child. The three men had recognized that at her 'rescue'. She was tiny for a seven-year-old. Her skin was a very pale ivory, and her cheeks were faintly pink, like they'd been painted on a china doll. She wore a business suit, and the hair that fell in soft waves to her mid-waist was exactly the color of summer corn silk. She had green eyes that were similar to Jo's, but they were a bit clearer and much, much colder. She eyed the man with distaste as she smoothed the wrinkles in her dark gray suit.

"What's this about, then?" She asked matter-of-factly, turning so that the three of them – man, Jo, and schoolgirl were in a sort of triangle formation.

"What – what's all this about, then?!" Lestrade sputtered angrily. "You'd better bloody tell me what all this is about then! First, Josephine _sprains her arm_ to get word to me through _Molly Hooper_ that - "

"You sprained your _arm_?" The grin on the man's face faltered just a bit as he took in Josephine, who was standing with her arms crossed, a look of suppressed rage on her face.

" – her sister's going to be _kidnapped_ by the same people who killed her _parents - _"

"What else was I supposed to do, Ian? You _threatened Sarah with the same message on Mom's card._"

"You told him I was going to _kidnap_ Sarah_?_"

" – and after we save her, we're redirected to a _mugging in progress_ which turns out to be a _trap - _"

"You used Mom's message?" Sarah Jane raised her eyebrows the man named Ian, showing mild surprise. "That's a bit low, even for you, Ian."

"- which is actually just a bit of fun with _bloody paintball guns!_"

"Explain yourself!" Three voices addressed Ian – two female, one irate, middle-aged Scotland Yardsman.

His grin returned full force. "You mean you don't recognize me, Greg?"

The inspector's face glowed with anger, before recognition sat in. "Ian? Ian Christopher Conners?"

Josephine muttered angrily, to no one in particular. "A.C. – _Agent Conners_. I. am. an. idiot."

"But a very brave, very protective idiot," Sarah Jane said generously. At least, you could tell she thought she was being generous.

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "I'm going to kill both of you."

"And you may get away with it, after that show." A new voice, soft and almost jovial, interrupted the chaos.

"Mycroft." Sherlock nodded to his brother.

"Sherlock." Mycroft returned the acknowledgment. "Always getting yourself into my business, aren't you."

"Only when you drop it in my lap," he replied cheerfully.

"Hmm." Mycroft turned, sighing noncommittally. "And I suppose you thought you were being _funny_, Agent Conners."

"Brilliant, actually." The young man flashed his superior a smug grin. "Got to test out these new guns. The paintball function works perfectly." He spun a small knob on the base of the gun, and turned to fire at a trashcan. He silently plugged five holes into it, all right after the other, in a perfect circle. Those holes were certainly _not_ caused by paintballs.

"This mess is coming out of your paycheck." Mycroft replied casually.

"Of course, sir." Ian spun the knob back to "paintball" setting, ignoring the protesting of the brunette girl in front of him. "It was perfectly safe, Jujubee. I'd never put my baby sisters in danger. Not unless they want to be, of course." He winked at Sarah Jane, who offered him a thin-lipped smile in return.

"I really didn't expect you to call in reinforcements, Jo. Sorry 'bout that." He didn't look sorry at all.

Josephine shook her head. "It's not the first time you've indirectly caused me to injure myself."

"And I'm sure it won't be the last," Sarah sniffed.

"So…I guess I forgive you." Josephine offered her brother a small smile, but it was genuine. She opened her arms. "Welcome home."

As Sherlock observed the events unfolding in front of him, he cataloged several possibly important pieces of information on the subject of love and sentiment:

1. Love made you do illogical things, such as attempting to break your own arm to save your sister. He already knew this, of course, having jumped off a roof to save his own friends, but Josephine's example proved that not only sociopaths did this.

2. Love made you forgive others their shortcomings. Ian and Sarah were obviously much, much more clever than Josephine, who mistook Ian's note as a threat (although, without insider knowledge, Sherlock had to admit that it had sounded like a threat to him, too). However, they did not attempt to humiliate her about it. Oh, and Josephine forgave Ian quickly for his own rather ill-humored attempt at a reunion.

3. The undercurrents of emotion among these three siblings was very strong, and reminded him of his own tenuous relationship with his brother. This last piece of information confirmed that without a doubt - where family was concerned – love is a battlefield.


	3. In Which Fools Rush In

_Chapter 3, In Which Fools Rush In_

John sat typing on his laptop, attempting to think of the perfect title for their latest adventure. Mary had gone to a medical conference, and it hadn't taken long for Sherlock to drag him out on a case. As it always was with Sherlock, it had been an exciting case. (Sherlock had deemed it a "7" at first, though he'd downgraded it to a "5" by the end.) It involved smugglers, a harpoon gun, and a very soggy visit to the local aquarium. He was debating between _The Adventure Aquatic_ and _The Sultry Smuggler_.

"Neither." A familiar voice drawled from across the room.

John gritted his teeth for a moment before looking up to see Sherlock strutting into the room, peeling of his gloves and slapping a file folder full of papers on the laptop keyboard.

"What?"

Sherlock gave him a withering glance. "Neither. The alliteration in both is nauseating. Although the people who typically read your blog would probably be more attracted to a _sultry smuggler_."

John stared at him for a moment, trying for the life of him to figure out how Sherlock had _deduced_ the titles he was thinking of _in his head_.

"Nope…no…still don't…Sherlock?" He asked, irritated.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I could spend the next five minutes explaining the obvious, _or_ you could take a look at that file on the Conners."

John looked down at the files in front of him. "The Conners?"

"Yes, yes, the Conners. Don't tell me you've forgotten them already. _Really_, John - "

"-I _remember_ them, Sherlock," John interrupted. "Bit hard to forget the whole being shot at by secret government weapons disguised as paintball guns."

"_Thrilling_, wasn't it?! Now take a look at those files."

John sighed as he eyed the folders in front of him. "Sherlock."

"Mmm?"

"Didn't your brother _specifically_ ask you _not_ to look into the Conners? And I remember a bit of a warning towards _me_ as well, not to "breathe a word of this" on my "adorable little blog?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He knows better than to _forbid_ me to do anything. It was practically an invitation to find out everything I possibly could on them. And after the disappointment of the _sultry smuggler_ – it's always about love or money, always, so _predictable_ – I needed something to alleviate the boredom." He sat across from John and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

John sighed again. And then he opened the files. The top paper of the first file was simply a description of the siblings, with a photo attached. John scanned through each quickly:

Father: Robert Christopher Conners (deceased)

Mother: Evelyn Clara Burlingame-Conners (deceased)

Name: Ian Christopher Conners

Age: 27

Occupation: MI-6 Classified

Phys Desc: 6'2" 187 lbs.

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Brown

Name: Sarah Jane Conners

Age: 7

Occupation: Student Classified - Recruit

Phys Desc: 3'5" 48 lbs

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Blonde

Name: Josephine Deidra Conners

Age: 22

Occupation: Sarah's caretaker; part-time librarian at St. Bride's

Phys Desc: 5'5" 145 lbs

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Brown

He then scanned the assortment of papers, photos, receipts, and seemingly unconnected newspaper articles in each file folder. In Ian's, there were several suspiciously official looking memos with the majority of the contents blacked out (_how did Sherlock get these?_) along with photographs of what appeared to be Ian in different uniforms and exotic dress; some in black and white, some in color. There were also copies of receipts for different take-out restaurants, for some very high-class hotels and some seedy pubs, and newspaper articles from several different countries, in several different languages, all about different events. Towards the back, there were eight photos of the Ian that John had most recently met. Ian didn't seem to know that these photos of him were being taken, as they showed him in action, walking towards or away from different London buildings, head down, in different outfits.

In Sarah's, there were three school photographs, copies of test scores, a thick booklet of schematics for something that looked like it had to do with computers, several photocopies of lined paper that were covered with precise, scripted numbers, symbols, and letters. It looked like they were math formulas.

Josephine's file had very little in it. There was a copy of her test scores and secondary transcripts, a work schedule for the library, and one family photo depicting the three siblings and two adults whom John assumed were the parents. John looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him with a look of expectation on his face.

"So, the girl's a maths genius or something?" That was the only thing John could think that Sherlock would be interested in.

Sherlock's face fell in frustration. "Obviously. Decent with computers, too. Nothing of use to us at the moment, though she may be useful later. Didn't you notice the buildings?"

"What buildings?"

"The buildings, John! In Ian's file. Those photos were taken by my homeless network. Don't you recognize them?"

"Er…recognize the buildings?"

Sherlock eyed him with impatience. "You're repeating yourself John. The _buildings_." He reached into the file and pulled out the photos in question, spreading them out. Then, he began to dig through the pile of newspapers on the table next to the couch.

"Here," he said, slapping a paper from last week next to one of the photos, "And here." He then grabbed John's laptop and began to type furiously, opening several windows to several different news websites.

John studied the photos, comparing them to the newspaper pages Sherlock had placed next to them. **Nathaniel Wilcolmb, 48, Poisoned at Own Restaurant****_, _**said one headline. **Drug Dealer Killed in Shooting**…**Mysterious Woman Stabbed in Park**…**Burglary Goes Awry, 2 Dead**…**Tragic Accident Leads to Local Man's Death **…all events from the past three weeks, all cases Sherlock had deemed beneath him. And every location in the papers had a building in the background that matched a building in the photos of Ian.

"So?" John asked, rubbing his face tiredly. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was not going to end well.

"So! Seventeen public deaths, some murders, some accidents, and all of them with Ian round! It took me a few days to recognize the pattern, to recognize him, but once I did it's been painfully easy to spot. He's got a partner, too, another 'secret agent' no doubt, and the two of them-"

"Hold on, _why_ are you investigating this?" John interrupted, irritated. "If Ian and this 'secret agent' partner are killing people, Mycroft knows about it. And if Mycroft knows about it, there's probably a reason they're doing it, and that reason is probably that they're _bad eggs_ and -" John paused, thinking about the victims in the paper. Some _were_ criminals, but most had seemed…normal, innocent civilians. "Wait. That doesn't make sen-"

"Of course not, because it's _wrong_. I never said they were the _killers_." Sherlock leaned forward, a smug smile on his face. "They're _curriers_, John. Or rather, the victims are. Unknowingly, too. Someone, a first responder – it's a different person each time and its _brilliant _ - places something on the victim's neck, right below the hairline behind the ear. Ian and his partner always arrive after this responder is ushered away by police – sometimes as bystanders, sometimes as emergency personnel, one time _at the hospital_ - they always find a way to get close to the victim, and they always come into physical contact with the victim. They remove that something from the victim's neck, right below the hairline behind the ear, and place something else there instead. Obviously, someone else, probably at the hospital, is on the receiving end of this information. Since we haven't heard of anything being found on these bodies, clearly they're removed before Molly or her coworkers get a chance to perform the autopsies. I've been monitoring Ian and his partner and the planters of the device, and I've noticed some of the planters are beginning to repeat. He's also being followed, and it's not one of Mycroft's men. Normally I wouldn't interfere, but - "

John scowled at Sherlock. "Right. Who are you kidding? You'd interfere with the devil if you'd wanted. "

Sherlock grinned knowingly. "You know you live for it."

John gave a slight nod as a grin spread over his face. "Yeah. But you take the blame if your brother finds out."

"Oh, I have no doubt he'll find out."

* * *

Sherlock had deduced that the identities of the victims weren't important. Actually, the victims, for once, weren't important to the case at all. That was what made this one special, and _brilliant_. Some organization (two possibilities: _crime syndicate, Russian weapons trafficking ring_) was ordering its members to watch for public deaths, ones with lots of witnesses. Not too difficult. Public deaths happen more often than most people think, and it is _expected_ that when that death happens, someone will try to step in and help the victim. So the said members watch, and wait. When this death occurs, they rush in, attempting to help, and surreptitiously plant _something_ (possibilities: _microchip_, _disguised _definitely) on the victim. This something must blend in with the victim easily, and be difficult for trained authorities to spot. Then, Ian and his cohort show up and swap this something for something else (another microchip? Different data – most likely.) There were quite a few missing pieces to the puzzle, and Sherlock's mind raced with excitement as he began to manipulate those pieces. He'd been following this mess of a government mission out of boredom, along with digging for information on one Tim-tom-something or other (_just a background check, he told himself – just to make sure Molly hasn't gotten herself another sociopath_) to keep his mind occupied until the next 7 came along. However, when certain connections informed him that the next microchip may have contained a kill order on a certain Agent Conners, he'd decided to get involved. _Merely a whim_, he told himself. _This has nothing to do with caring about anyone_. _Just an experiment_. Besides, pitting his brain against an entire crime syndicate or Russian trafficking ring was quite stimulating, for a bowl of goldfish.

It took two full days, even with Sherlock's deductions, for Sherlock and John to happen upon an unfortunate man having a heart attack on the tube. It had taken them several minutes to reach the man, as bystanders were already crowding and jostling around, trying to be of help or get out the way, respectively. John, of course, was concerned with trying to save the man's life, and Sherlock's eyes cataloged every minute detail as they approached.

_Woman, 45, nurse, attempting CPR, legitmate_.

_Boy, 15, smokes, calling 999, legitimate._

_Woman, 31, business, setting up AED – _there.

It was her, business woman. She was unbuttoning the man's shirt and her movements were so quick, anyone but Sherlock would have missed the way her left hand quickly patted the back of the man's neck, right behind his ear, as she brushed his shirt collar out of the way and took his pulse.

As John began to attempt to assist the business woman in setting up the AED, Sherlock knelt by the man. "Right, John, what can I do?" He had to get as near the man as possible in order to snatch the _thing_.

"Clear! Stay clear, the AED is monitoring for a heart beat." The businesswoman gave the order, and everyone took a step back, staying clear of the man on the floor. By now the train had arrived at the station, and Sherlock cursed under his breath. They needed to get that _thing_ from the man's neck before emergency services arrived, and with them, Sherlock suspected, Ian Conners and his assistant, since they weren't currently on the train.

"Shock not advised. Press button to analyze again." The computerized voice gave Sherlock the chance he needed. His fingers felt under the man's hairline, and found what they were looking for. He slipped it into his pocket, and blended back in to the crowd.

After the emergency personnel, the unfortunate man, the business woman, and a disgruntled Ian (wearing a blonde wig and dressed very much like a bum) had departed, Sherlock found John again. They returned to Baker Street, where Sherlock unsuccessfully tried several different approaches in an attempt to discover what was on the strange, rubbery, skin-like microchip device. It was about the size of a pencil eraser, with a thin, hard, tiny square in the center, and nothing Sherlock did seemed to give him any answers as to what it contained.

"So…what's the plan?" John asked.

"The plan? The plan the plan the plan the plan…is Sarah Jane!" Sherlock announced suddenly, leaping up and placing the device in a baggie in his coat pocket.

John looked at him incredulously. "Sherlock Holmes is going to ask a _schoolgirl_ for help?"

Sherlock paused, and gave John a scornful glance. "I am _not_ asking a _schoolgirl_ for help. I am interviewing one of the _designers_ of this delightful piece of _technology_ in order to assist Ian Conners with his investigation."

"First of all, Sherlock, Ian Conners did not ask you for _help_. And," John added with a smug grin, "whether she's the _designer_ or not doesn't matter. You're asking a _schoolgirl_ for help."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled something about how his skull never talked back. Nevertheless, the two friends were out the door and on their way into trouble in under thirty seconds.

* * *

By the time they reached the Conners' flat, Sherlock's phone had given several text and two missed call notifications. John was about to comment on it when Josephine Conners opened the door, balancing a bin of recyclables and holding her phone to her ear with her shoulder, just as Sherlock had raised a fist to knock.

She went a bit cross-eyed as she focused on the fist in front of her face, then blinked and focused on the men outside her door.

"Right…Sophie, I'll have to ring you later. Oh, nothing - just some people at the door. No, no, it's fine. Sorry. Yeah. Bye." She awkwardly shuffled backwards into the apartment, and set the bin on the floor near the door. After checking to be sure her call with Sophie had ended, she turned her attention to the men.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she smiled politely. "D'ya need something?"

"Yes, we need Sarah, thank you for inviting us in." Sherlock pushed through the door, eyes scanning the flat, but was stopped from traveling further when Josephine grabbed his coat sleeve.

"Do you mind?" He glared at her, tugging his sleeve away.

"I do. Do _you_ mind telling me why you need my sister?" Josephine asked, folding her arms protectively in front of her chest.

"Sorry – sorry. He's a bit mad, sometimes," John apologized, awkwardly coming in to the flat himself and shutting the door behind him.

"A very important case involving your brother. I've reason to believe he's been discovered, but I need Sarah to - "

Josephine paled. "You're helping my brother?" She shook her head. "No."

"Yes, that's what I said, we're hel-"

"No, I mean – no. You can't use Sarah Jane to help my brother. He's dangerous, I love him but he's _dangerous, _and she's seven. She's a brilliant seven, I'll give you that, but she's seven, and she's a person, not a _tool_."

Sherlock sighed, eyes tracing a shadow on the ceiling. "_Ms. Conners_, either a crime syndicate manufacturing illegal drugs or a Russian spy ring selling illegal weapons is using a microchip system your sister helped _create_ to send coded messages through the dead bodies of innocent people. Your brother has been intercepting these messages, and I believe replacing them with falsified data. I have reason to believe his 'cover has been blown', and we need her to save him."

Josephine studied him for moment, trying to judge whether or not to believe him.

"Er, not to interrupt," John said, stepping forward, "but even though Sherlock's an arse, socially speaking, he's always right. Always." He looked at Josephine meaningfully. "If he says your brother's in danger, and we need your sister to save him, he's right."

Josephine gritted her teeth, but nodded at John. "'Kay then." She turned to the hallway and yelled, "Sarah Jane! We've got company! And we need your brain to save Ian…_again_!"

Sarah Jane appeared a few moments later, carrying a rather fat tabby, which was purring loudly. Her blonde hair had been plaited into a long braid down her back, and she was wearing brown slacks and a light blue blouse that looked too grown up for such a tiny child. Her eyes were serious as she deposited the cat down on an old armchair, and pulled up a chair to sit with the rest of the group at a table. Sherlock had taken the microchip out of his pocket and placed on the table. When Sarah saw it, she tensed, and her thin pink lips pouted into sort of a sour frown.

"Where did you get that?"

"Off of a dying man, but the _important_ piece of information here is that it was placed there by a criminal, and was going to be stolen and replaced by your brother, but we got it first, because I have reason to believe it contains a kill order on said brother."

"You took this off of a dying man?" Sarah asked quietly, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Yes, but as I said, the _important_ thing - "

"I heard you. Where did you take it from?"

"Behind the right ear under the hairline on the back of the neck."

"What about the one on his wrist?"

Sherlock stared at her. "What?"

"The one on his wrist. The one behind the ear is a microchip that contains information. The one on the wrist contains a tracking device, so that the agent, or whoever, can find the body to remove the microchip. And the tracker, obviously."

Sherlock looked at John across the table. "We may need to make a visit to St. Bart's." He looked at Sarah Jane, who was already beginning to disassemble the chip into something computer-readable. "Can you tell us what's on that chip?"

"Of course." She said evenly, her small fingers working surprisingly quickly. "Jo, can you get my phone? S' on the desk."

"How long will this take?"

"Mmm…maybe fifteen minutes. And then, if this information is encrypted, or coded, or what have you, another fifteen to twenty, but I may not be able to understand what I've deciphered."

"Then you'll have to come." He got up as Sarah ran to get her coat, ignoring the incredulous looks on John and Josephine's faces.

"_Really_?" They said, simultaneously.

"She'll be fine. We're going to a hospital, after all."

Josephine went to get her coat. "Fine. But I'm coming as well."

* * *

Molly Hooper was just signing her name on a finished autopsy report when another body came in. John Unger, 52, cause of death was suspected to be a heart attack. She sighed, but it was a pleasant sort of sigh, from doing your job well and knowing it, and she rubbed the stiffness out of her left shoulder and got to work.

* * *

Ian Conners cursed under his breath when he felt behind the man's neck and hadn't found the microchip. He was worried – no, not worried – but mildly concerned that that particular microchip may have had data on it regarding his identity and the…delicate work he'd been undertaking the past few weeks. He'd assumed that he'd been mistaken – maybe the businesswoman _hadn't_ planted a microchip on this particular body.

Mycroft Holmes had discovered the Russians' plan after just three deaths, and had given Ian and his partner orders to sabotage the information. Things were moving fast, and although that's how Ian liked it, he had to admit that being found out so quickly put him off. His phone rang, and he answered with a quick bark.

"Agent Conners."

"Ian – new development. Turns out there _was_ a chip on that poor sod. Someone took the microchip, but not the tracker. Trackers's been activated by one of Katerina's men. Currently on it's way to good ol' Bart's. If they find the tracker and _not_ the chip - "

"Right. If our cover's not blown yet, it will be then. Where are you?"

"Right here."

Ian smiled, and hopped into the vehicle that pulled up on the curb beside him.

* * *

Molly Hooper furrowed her brow in concentration over the autopsy table. _Odd. _Mr. John Unger did die of a heart attack. That was straightforward enough. However, as she inspected the body, she'd found a small, round, flesh-colored pinpoint on his left wrist. It almost was like a little pin, and she carefully scraped it off. It left no visible mark on his skin. She held it up to the light with tweezers, studying it carefully. She'd never seen anything like it.

* * *

Sherlock, John, Josephine, and Sarah Jane arrived at the hospital precisely eleven minutes after Ian and his partner arrived. As the four people rushed through the hallways on their way to the morgue (it had taken Sherlock all of four seconds to realize that Molly would be working on Mr. John Unger, heart attack victim), they came into contact with an unconscious intern, and a few meters later, an unconscious Ian.

"Darn it, Ian…what've you done now?" Josephine whispered angrily, her face twisted into worry. John knelt down to examine them both.

"Both just had a good blow to the head…may have concussions, but they'll come around in no time. Ian sooner than this one," he said, gesturing to the intern a few meters away.

Ian groaned and his eyes started to flutter.

"Have you opened the file, Ms. Conners?" Sherlock asked impatiently, already on the move.

"Almost…" Sarah continued furiously tapping, swishing, and pushing buttons on her smart phone.

"Good, because we needed it two minutes ago."

* * *

Molly was still staring at the strange pinprick in the light when the doors to her right were thrown open with a crash. Two men, one tall and muscular, and one shorter and flabbier, barged through them. They both wore lab coats and were eyeing each other angrily. Molly squeaked in surprise, and quickly placed the tweezers onto the metal tray next to her.

"Sorry to interrupt the autopsy, Dr. Hooper," wheedled the short man, who was also short of breath, "but I've just gotten a ring from Scotland Yard, and they'll be needin' that there item you've just found on Mr. Unger. Turns out it was a murder."

His little explanation was drowned out by the taller man's sharp direction to hand over the item so the lab could analyze it.

Molly frowned at both of them. "Wha? Who _are_ you? The lab doesn't _analyze_ anything unless the lead pathologist orders it – which is _me_ – and Scotland Yard always contacts me _directly_ if there's - "

She was interrupted by the crash of the metal doors again, this time dramatically announcing the entrance of Sherlock, John, Jo, and Sarah Jane. Molly looked at them nervously, and began to creep around the autopsy table towards their familiar faces.

"Sherlock?" She asked, uncertainly looking between the two men and the group of people who were now just behind her.

His lips twitched into his signature quick, fake smile. "Molly." He eyed the two men, who were both obviously agitated. "Find anything interesting on Mr. Unger?"

At his words, Short Man turned and pulled two guns from beneath his lab coat, and trained one on the group by the doors and one on Tall Man. At the same time, Sherlock grabbed Molly's arm and flung her behind him and John, while holding his own arm out to prevent John from moving towards the other men, as though he fully expected John to go charging into gunfire. Josephine grabbed Sarah and pulled her behind a nearby cabinet, and held them both very still.

Sherlock smirked coolly at the man in front of him. "I suggest you surrender your weapons."

Short Man snorted nervously. "Ha! No, sir, I think I'll be takin' _his_ weapons…there…on the ground nice and slow, Mr. Agent…tha's right." He directed the Tall Man to place his gun on the ground, and he did so slowly, then kicked it towards Short Man. "Now, then…I'll jes be obliged if ye'll- "

They never discovered what the man would be obliged to, because Ian staggered through the doors behind him, waving a gun, which distracted Short Man enough for Tall Man to spring into action, disarming the criminal in a matter of seconds.

Once Ian and his partner had cuffed the man and relieved him of his weapons, they turned to the three people visible in the room. Ian's partner began to interrogate them, suspicious, but Ian quickly assured him that all three were 'on the right side'. At the sound of the partner's voice, Sarah Jane popped out, smiling warmly, and stated that she'd finished unlocking the files on the microchip.

Sherlock held out his hand for them, but Ian's partner returned Sarah's smile. "Toss 'em here, Sarah girl."

She obliged, much to Sherlock's annoyance, and the partner, the tall man with sandy hair and dark brown eyes, studied the file. He whistled, long and low. "Well, Sarah girl, looks like you've saved the day again. Ian, these files just about had our kill orders." He winked at her, and Sarah smiled all the more, although she was still very pale.

Josephine was standing behind her now, hands gently on her sister's shoulders, smiling broadly at the man in front of her. "Ian," she scolded lightly, "you didn't tell us Casey was your partner for this one."

Ian groaned and sat down, holding his head. "Sorry…slipped my mind…". John began to look him over more closely.

Molly, who had been sitting, trying to calmly collect herself, finally stood. She breathed, gave a crooked smile and joked, "Well…that was exciting."

After Molly had given the agents the tracker from Mr. Unger, had sworn herself to secrecy, and was listening to the explanation given by John and Casey, Jo quietly guided Sarah Jane out of the morgue and into the hallway. She gave her sister a hug and turned her so that she was looking her full in the face.

Sarah Jane swallowed nervously. "Molly was right…that was exciting."

"Mmm." Jo said, brushing the few strands of Sarah's hair that had come loose out of Sarah's eyes.

"Ms. Conners," a deep voice interrupted Jo's analysis of her sister, "Thank you for your assistance, though it was a bit slower than expected. I'm sure next time -"

"Next time, Mr. Holmes?" Jo turned, eyebrows raised ridiculously high, hand resting protectively on her sister's shoulders.

"Yes. If I could get your contact - "

"No thank you." Josephine said firmly, eyes refusing to break from Sherlock's gaze.

"I was referring to the _younger_ Ms. Conners," he said, extending a piece of paper and pen to Sarah, who looked between it and Josephine.

"Mr. Holmes -"

"I prefer Sherlock, thank you. Hate being confused with my brother." He offered her an insincere smile, and impatiently shook the pen and paper towards Sarah, encouraging her to take it.

"Fine then, _Sherlock_. I'm sure you can understand why I insist that you no longer contact my sister for help. Why would a genius like you need-"

"-Genius _and_ high-functioning sociopath," he corrected. "And while I don't _need_ your sister's, or anyone else's, help, I do recognize that in _certain_ areas, because of specialization and constant study, _some_ people may be able to see or do things, such as deciphering a microchip, much faster than I can. This is why I have John and Molly – doctor and pathologist at hand. I've recently decided having a technician on call may be beneficial in certain cases as well. A sort of business relationship. Surely _you_ can understand how many lives that would save. It has saved three already today."

Jo stared at him for a moment, and Sherlock was unable to tell for a moment if she would shout at him, leave him in silence, or laugh out loud. She surprised him. She smiled at him. "Look…Sherlock. I do understand." She took the paper and pen from Sherlock and began writing on it. "But-" she added quickly, before he could interrupt or smirk in victory, "I'm giving you _my_ contact information. And you're going to listen to me, and listen well. I know when geniuses are listening or not, because I've grown up with two, and I'm sure I can apply what I know about geniuses to high-functioning sociopaths as well. So _listen._"

She paused and studied his face carefully, and decided that he was truly listening. "I know Sarah is brilliant. I know she helped you today. And-" she glanced at her sister proudly, who smiled back at her, "-I'm fairly sure she enjoyed it. But _she's_ not a sociopath, Sherlock. She's a genius. A seven year old genius who was pretty shaken up at the prospect of getting shot at because this time she knew it _wasn't_ our idiot brother playing a joke on us, no matter how calm and collected she tries to act. And you didn't protect her from it."

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Jo held up her hands. "I said you're _listening_. You didn't protect her from it, and I don't care how many times you say you 'knew she'd be fine' because you 'knew Ian would wake up and come through that door' or however you knew she'd be fine. The fact is, when that man in there pulled out his guns, you protected the two people you care about – Molly and John. And that's okay – I understand – it's okay that your first thought was to protect those two. And my first thought was to protect Sarah. But no matter what you say, you'll never convince me that in a moment of pressure, you'd definitely protect Sarah over either of them. And that's okay – I don't expect you to choose Sarah over them, because you don't care about Sarah. Not like you care about them. But this means no more taking Sarah _with_ you – ever – even if I come – because I like you, Mist-er, Sherlock. I like you, but I do not trust you with my sister's life. So here's my information. Give us a ring if you're stuck on a microchip or something again, but we're not coming with you – or _to_ you – anymore."

This was something Sherlock was not expecting. He took the paper from Josephine, and was only vaguely aware of her calling her good-byes through the doorway ("Thanks for the _phone call_ Ian – come over for dinner soon Casey – good to see you again, John Watson – Molly, don't listen to a _word_ Ian tells you – he could charm the pants off the Pope – Cheers!") before she took her sister and left. He suddenly had a lot of data to review in his mind palace.

* * *

_You protected the two people you care about. You protected Molly and John. You protected the two people you care about._

Hours after the explanations had been given to all who needed one and the world was right again, Sherlock was still playing his one-sided conversation with Josephine Conners over in his mind. What disturbed him most was that she was correct – he had protected Molly and John over Sarah.

Molly and John – two fully-functioning, level-headed, intelligent adults, who were used to relatively dangerous situations involving himself and probably would have had the wherewithal to take cover had the criminal opened fire. Over Sarah – a _child_, who was admittedly used to dangerous situations involving her brother, but who was not, apparently, regularly called in to duty on the streets. A _seven year old child_ who was much less likely, despite her intelligence, to have experience dodging bullets.

And that was a foolish action on his part. He _should_ have protected Sarah – or should he have? He argued that Josephine was there, and he knew she'd protect Sarah. But no, the action of 'protecting' John and Molly still remained foolish. He'd been a fool. He scowled. He'd have to be more careful from now on, about allowing his _emotions_ to unconsciously dictate his actions. After all, only fools rush in to something so blinding and all-powerful as _love_.


	4. In Which Love is a Song

**Hello!**

**Thank you so much, followers! I really didn't expect anyone to follow my story, but I'm so excited about it! **

**I would also get really, really excited about any reviews you have for me. *Wink wink - nudge, nudge* I'm always paranoid that I get Sherlock all wrong, even though I love him and I'm so nice it's fun to be kind of mean through him once in a while. Feel free to give me any constructive crit you may have for me. :)**

**So, in this chapter is a bit of silliness and Sherlock getting to know the Conners better, and I do have Jo quote a lyric or two from the following songs (it's not horribly cheesy, I promise - just a hint of cheddar):**

**"All Kinds of Kinds" by Miranda Lambert**

**"Fools" by Lauren Aquilina (She's brilliant if you've never heard of her. Youtube her.)**

**"Come What May" from Moulin Rouge. **

**There is also a reference to the book "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch and a reference to a poem from William Wadsworth called "She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways". It was my favorite poem in high school, and it is still my favorite poem. **

**Obviously, I do not own any of the songs, or literature, or Sherlock. **

* * *

_Chapter 4, In Which Love is a Song_

Sherlock Holmes had the perfect sentiment specimen to observe, and her name was Josephine Conners. He realized this as soon as he realized that he disliked her. He was indifferent to her, those first few times they happened to meet. After the episode with the tracker in the morgue, however, Josephine was on high alert at all times – at least when Sherlock Holmes was involved. She was apparently a woman of her word, and she had not allowed Sarah Jane to help Sherlock _at all_, unless it was under the comfort of her own sickeningly sweet little roof. This was very irritating. John had reminded Sherlock again and again that Sarah Jane was _seven_, but age meant nothing at all, in the grand scheme of things. At least that was Sherlock's argument. He never won. Again, irritating.

So he tried his old tricks – manipulating _feelings. _Specifically, the feelings of the legal guardian of the seven year old genius whose mind he wanted to use. Although he was brilliant, he was also _lazy_, and when he found someone whose work he could trust, he did everything in his power to make sure they did that work for him. To get Sarah Jane to work for him, he needed her sister Josephine. And he firmly believed the way to do that was to win her _feelings_.

Not romantic feelings. Oh, no. He'd learned his lesson with Molly on that one. And he certainly didn't need any other person fawning over him, annoying him and distracting him with sighs and nervous giggles. He much preferred Molly now that she could carry on an intelligent conversation with him. Besides, based on their interactions the first time he saw Jo and Casey together (_her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile was warmer and broader than for anyone else he'd seen her meet, pupils dilated slightly; his expression softened when he saw her standing behind Sarah Jane, and he had readily accepted her invitation to supper_) he knew that Josephine already had _romantic_ feelings for Agent Casey Long. So no, not those types of feelings.

He'd have to go with friendly affection. And he tried. Oh, how he tried! He attempted dull conversations about weather and music and novels and complimenting her on her musical and baking skills (she really was a decent piano player and an _excellent _baker) and teasing her in a friendly manner about her poor cooking (she fried eggs, made spaghetti, and anything that came frozen or from a tin. That was it.) He tried ignoring her whenever she hummed and sang (she had _the most irritating _habit of singing song lyrics _to you_ as a means of conversation.)

Sherlock recalled the first time he'd witnessed that awful singing habit earlier that week. He and John had arrived with a url and a need to find the computer from an internet café that posted it. Sarah had opened the door and invited them in, and Ian and Casey were discussing the latest football match on the telly, in between assignments. Josephine was making grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner, and baking apple pie for dessert. The grilled cheese was burnt, but the pie smelled _heavenly_, and the assault on his senses was too much for Sherlock to take.

"How do you manage that?" Sherlock had asked immediately.

"Manage what?" Josephine replied, as she scraped some burnt bits off of the skillet before placing another sandwich on it.

"How do you manage to burn whatever you _cook_ into oblivion, but everything you _bake_ turns out perfectly? It's the same basic chemical reactions for each. It's simple recipes and formulas, and it's completely illogical that you should be so well-versed in one and abysmal in the other." He gave her a stiff sort of smile to let her know he was teasing her.

Sarah snorted and John gave him his _is-this-seriously-your-idea-of-friendly-conversation_ _-you're-embarrassing-me_ look. Ian and Casey both laughed, and Jo stared at him for a moment with a funny sort of look on her face and a smile in her eyes. Then she shrugged, laughed, and began to _sing_.

It wasn't that she had a bad voice. It was clear and thin, and years of piano-playing had made her able to carry a tune. It was her _choice_ of songs that were _torture_.

_"Ever since the beginning,_

_To keep the world spinning,_

_It takes all kinds of kinds."_

Later, at home with Mary, John had looked up the song – a _country and western song_ by one American Miranda Lambert - and listened to the whole thing, laughing uncontrollably. _Irritation at its finest_.

And that evening, she had continued humming and singing without another word to him, and had _insisted_ that Sarah Jane eat dinner before even looking at the url.

Sherlock frowned and emphatically deleted that memory from his mind. There was no reason to keep that one.

Eventually, he _had _gotten Sarah to trace the url (it had taken ten minutes). But he had failed in his attempt to _befriend_ Josephine and so have easier access to her sister. Compliments, dull conversation, and fake smiles did not work on Josephine. Of course, the fact that he tried all of these things in one fifteen minute attempt to get Sarah to trace a url probably didn't help.

So his next plan of attack was what came most naturally to him – being a gigantic jerk. The next time Sarah was assisting him, he got Josephine out of earshot and insulted her annoying habits, picked up on her self-consciousness about her responsibility to raise Sarah Jane, and her relationship with Casey, and picked them apart mercilessly.

"He's slept with three women in the past year. All traditionally prettier than you, and the second one he stayed with for…four months."

She had stiffened her spine and replied. "Thanks for that. I know sometimes he has to…sleep with women. That's part of his job. All James Bond, and that. Besides, we're not in a relationship, so he has no reason to answer to me."

"But you're both obviously attracted to one another. Why _aren't_ you in a relationship? Although relationships are ridiculous to begin with, so I suppose I can understand your avoidance."

"Because _he_ has England and the whole bloody world to save, which does, you know, take him away a lot, and does occasionally require him to _seduce other women_, and I have – I have Sarah Jane to take care of."

"Ah. Pity you couldn't afford to send her to uni early. Although I'm sure my dear brother has offered to pay, if she signs a government contract. Perhaps I could-"

"Don't you dare." But the words were said with a smile, not anger – not what he expected. "She'll earn her own scholarship when she's got a mind to. Right now, she needs children her own age. She needs social skills so she doesn't turn from a highly-functioning child genius to a _highly-functioning sociopath_." Again, with that smile.

"I'm not offering because I _care_ about Sarah Jane. It would simply be easier for me to use her mind if she were studying away from _you_."

And then she'd started _singing_ at him again – "_Those hardest to love need it most_…" and then humming, and then singing again, and she went back to cleaning –

And it _irritated_ him because she obviously thought she _understood_ how he worked, and nothing he said or did fazed her. And then he realized – Josephine had a bit of a gift of her own, and it wasn't a half-decent musical ability and it wasn't delicious biscuits. Josephine had _self-control_. She had the self control of a woman who'd given up her own schooling and career to fold her brilliant little sister's underwear and pack her lunches every day. She had the self control of a woman who _loved_ a man enough to wait for him until the day he retired from the spy life, if that day ever came. She had the self-control of a woman who _hated_ cats with the passion of a thousand burning suns, but tolerated, cared for, and even pretended to _like_ her little sister's cat, Lucy, because that fat, old cat was the only thing left of their parents and Sarah Jane just _loved_ it. She had the self-control of a woman who was fiercely protective of her little sister, and did _not_ want her dragged into anything dangerous, but realized that these dangerous things were what Sarah Jane loved and that Sarah Jane could definitely make the world less dangerous if she chose. So she let Sarah Jane help Ian and Sherlock, occasionally. On her terms.

No matter how much he tried to flatter and manipulate her, no matter how much he deduced her, no matter how coldly he spoke to her, she didn't lash out at him (except to sing those _ridiculously awful_ songs) and she didn't forbid Sarah Jane from helping him. Josephine Conners had complete self-control when it came to her emotions.

And this made her a perfect specimen for observation.

Because Sherlock would _never_ admit to _anyone_ the fact that he did not have this same amount of self-control over his emotions. He'd been able to _fake_ it, when all he felt were the simple, easily suppressed emotions like irritation, anger, pride, and contentment. He'd done that perfectly for so long when he was alone. But he wasn't alone anymore, and he was starting to feel emotions much more strongly. Josephine Conners had _felt_ – strongly and completely and normally – from the time she was born, and she'd learned to control those emotions very well. Sherlock, on the other hand, had begun suppressing his emotions at the ripe young age of eight, and whenever he felt something particularly strongly, had the self-control of an eight year old. And that was being optimistic. (Most of the time, if he was being honest, his emotional self-control was more along the lines of a four-year-old.)

Hence his inability to keep himself from sticking his foot up his arse on regular occasions. That Christmas with Molly – when he'd felt such _frustration _ and _longing _for The Woman, and had not been able to control his mouth enough to stop deducing the daylights out of everyone in the room. And when he realized that Molly had dressed up for _him_ – the present was for _him_ – he'd immediately felt such _shock_ and _guilt _and even _embarrassment_ for her, that he apologized, _kissed_ her, and fled the room with a present from The Woman to console him and take his mind off of things.

And when he returned and surprised John at the restaurant – he was so _relieved_, so _excited_ to see his friend again, he hadn't foreseen that his friend might not feel the same way. He had not been able to control his feelings enough to consider that John might be a bit _put off_ that he'd faked his death and hadn't bothered to let him in on the secret.

And then, when he knew Molly was engaged, when he knew she wouldn't help him 'solve crimes' again, even though she really had done a respectable job, and he felt the weight of John's engagement and now Molly's and he might have to be alone again and that was _too heavy_, but he was also happy for them because he _loved_ them and it was just overwhelming – he'd kissed her again, and said that she deserved happiness, because she did. But the strange war of resigned happiness and sadness that pulled in his chest had not allowed him to stop and consider that kissing an engaged Molly Hooper was not the best plan of action or expression of his feelings, given her track record with him.

And at John's wedding – he had made people cry with his speech and had actually _pirouetted _in front of that bridesmaid. Jeanette? Janice? Something like that. He'd been happy, and had _shown_ it. In his own, highly-functioning sociopathic way.

And so Sherlock decided that he must control these emotions, since they weren't just disappearing. He'd learned about love from watching the Conners, and Josephine in particular would be an excellent specimen to continue learning from. Ian was often absent and Sarah was still a child, so they were out. Since he decidedly disliked Josephine, and this would prevent him from becoming _involved_ with her, she appeared to be the perfect person to observe and learn from.

And so he watched, and learned.

* * *

Sherlock was thrilled when Lucy died mid-August. He'd come with John to see Sarah about some formulas left behind by a dying mathematics professor, and the door was unlocked. They walked in, and Josephine was sitting with Sarah on the couch, her arms wrapped around her little sister's shaking form. Sarah was curled into her sister, and sobbing quietly, with great shaky breaths and unpleasant sniffles.

_Josephine hated Lucy. Sarah loved Lucy. Josephine loves Sarah._

_Opening File: Emotions_

_Folder: Happiness_

_Sub-file: Relief_

_Specifically: Feeling happiness about something others are sad about_

_Application to self: Murders, crimes...everything_

_Cataloging reactions:_

Sherlock watched Josephine carefully. He knew she would be relieved, if not happy, that Lucy was gone. Her own eyes were shiny with tears, _not for Lucy – for Sarah's sadness?_ – and she had wrapped Sarah Jane in a quilt. She was rubbing small circles on her sister's back – _comforting through touch_ – and murmuring, half-whispering, half-singing a breathy lullaby –_ I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always – comforting through familiar words or song _– and her words were a warm blanket, but her normally smiling eyes glared daggers at Sherlock and John as they let themselves in.

Her voice stayed warm and low as she greeted them. "Hullo. As you can see, we're having a bit of a day. You can come back another time." She smiled tightly, but her eyes were still full of warning.

Sherlock stayed, staring for a moment, cataloging a few last pieces of information on Josephine's brilliant ability to mask her joy that the blasted cat was gone – before nodding and adding, "Sorry for your loss. We'll return at a better time."

John looked shocked at Sherlock's words. "Loss?"

"Lucy died," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Noticing his look of confusion, he added "Lucy was a cat."

John closed his mouth and nodded to the two girls - "Right, then. Sorry for your loss." - before pulling Sherlock out of the room.

* * *

Sherlock returned a few days later, with the formulas in hand. John was assisting Mary today, and Sherlock had waited long enough for Sarah's assistance. Again, the door was unlocked, and he let himself in. Sarah Jane was no longer crying, but her face was pulled downwards in a sort of perpetual frown as she sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly fiddling with a bit of toast.

"Ms. Conners. A distraction," he announced, placing the papers carefully in front of her.

Josephine popped her head around the corner, freshly showered and dressed, combing her hair. "Hullo, Sherlock. What did you bring Sarah today?" She asked carefully, padding over to look at the papers herself.

"Math formulas. A maths professor was found dead – of _natural causes -_" he added when Josephine gave him a _look_ over Sarah Jane's head. " – but his offspring believe he left something valuable behind, and they believe the answer lies in these formulas. Boring case, really, but…" he allowed his voice to trail off as Sarah's eyes worked over the paper carefully, taking in all of the numbers and letters and symbols.

"Jo - " she started to ask, but her sister had already brought her a pad of paper and a pencil.

"Thanks." She smiled up at Jo and Sherlock, and then her face fell into content concentration.

Sherlock walked around the flat as he was waiting, deducing from the crumbs on the counter and the bulging bin next to it that Jo had tried and failed yet another recipe the previous night. His eyes landed on a new photo frame on a bookshelf near the telly. It was one of those double frames, and on one side was a picture of the deceased cat, comfortable in Sarah's arms. Josephine was in the background, eyeing the cat with an awkward smile on her face. On the other side was a poem, "She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways", by William Wordsworth.

He read it once, and gave a short bark of laughter. He read it again, and started chuckling. "Clever," he admitted. The poem managed to convey Sarah's love and Jo's hatred for the cat in equal measure.

Sarah was still concentrating, but Jo had noticed his laughter. When she saw what he was laughing at, she couldn't help smiling herself. "Picked that one out myself. I have to admit…I've been saving it for this day. Sarah knows that it's about both of us…but…she likes it too."

And then she was next to him, with her hand lightly on his arm, removing it before he could shrug it off. Her eyes were smiling gently at him. "Thank you," she whispered.

Sherlock took a step back, frowning. "For…?"

"For distracting Sarah Jane. She's been sad, and…" she gestured to Sarah, who was smiling now and rubbing the end of her turned-up nose as she continued working, "this helps. So thank you."

He stared coolly at Josephine. "You're welcome." He paused, looking back towards Sarah again. "Text me when she's done."

And he was out the door, but not before Josephine started singing cheerfully about loving someone until her dying day.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and effectively deleted that particular memory, but held on to one piece of information to store away – that in the case of Josephine Conners, oftentimes, love – and its expression - was a song.

* * *

**So, there it is! You'll get another chapter today, too, because I live in the Midwest and they've cancelled school again today because of the wind chill so I don't have to work today. I'm really enjoying making pizza dough and doing laundry and reading fantastic Sherlock fanfiction as I start my weekend out right. ;D**

**The next chapter is a bit more angsty and features Sherlock as a child. Turns out, he's so good at deleting useless or painful information from his mind palace that he's forgotten he's already connected to the Conners...**

**Cheers! **


	5. In Which Love Takes a Turn

**Hello again!**

**As promised, another chapter. **

**Not a long one, but sets the tone for the next chapter. :)**

* * *

_Chapter 5, In Which Love Takes a Turn_

John and Sherlock needed Sarah Jane to break through a firewall. The hard part was going to be preventing Jo from finding out that's what she was doing. John was against asking a seven-year-old to do something illegal, but after Sherlock had begun listing, in dispassionate detail, the crimes of the man behind the firewall, John had agreed that perhaps it was for the best. Josephine would still never allow it, hence the need for trickery. Sherlock wasn't worried; trickery was one of his skill sets.

Just as he had memorized John and Molly's work schedules, Sherlock had memorized Josephine's as well. He knew that on the first and third Tuesdays of every month, Sarah Jane took the tube to the station nearest St. Brides after school and walked a block to the library, where she joined Josephine for the four remaining hours of her shift in the children's section. That's precisely where they found Sarah Jane and Josephine the first Tuesday in September.

Sarah Jane was at a desk, books piled around her, writing every now and then in a notebook. She was a pretty little picture, and Sherlock knew she'd help him break that firewall in seconds, but it was Josephine Sherlock had to look out for. He scouted through shelves, John close behind him, until he spotted her talking to a young boy with an unruly mop of blonde hair and a face full of freckles. Sherlock paused behind a shelf, out of their line of sight, listening for the opportune moment to surprise Josephine with his well-reasoned, slightly falsified request for Sarah Jane's help.

"So what did you think of _Peter Pan_, Charlie?"

The boy wrinkled his nose and didn't quite meet Jo's eyes. "It was nice."

Josephine laughed gently. "Charlie, you don't have to lie to me…if you didn't like it, just say so!"

Charlie sighed audibly. "Well, I liked the Lost Boys, and I liked the pirates…but Captain Hook was a…a…complete clot! He wasn't a fun pirate at all. I wanted a fun pirate."

Josephine's smile was heard more than seen. "Naturally. You want a clever pirate, and there's none cleverer than the pirate in _Treasure Island_. I won't tell you who it is, though – that'd ruin the story. And I'll get you a biography on a _real_ pirate, too – who sounds more fierce to you –Blackbeard or Calico Jack? I'll get it from the adult section. You can handle that, right?"

As the boy nodded furiously, a smile lighting his eyes, Sherlock closed his own, swallowed, and fought a memory that was rising like a painful bubble from the center of his chest. He'd _deleted_ this memory from his mind palace – he'd _deleted_ it, so why – why was it coming back _now_? _Why_?

_Sherlock is five years old. He's in the children's section of – something – memorial library _(he did try to delete this memory – there are bits and pieces missing)_, and he's frowning at the titles in front of him. He's just returned Peter Pan, and it was not as good as he'd hoped. He'd wanted a book with REAL pirates, and Mrs. Rush had given him Peter Pan._

_Someone walked up behind him – a librarian, but not Mrs. Rush. This was a different woman. Younger. Probably working her way through uni. She smelled like book dust and chocolate biscuits._

_"Can I help you?"_

_"I don't think so."_

_"What are you looking for?"_

_"A book with pirates."_

_"Have you tried Peter Pan?"_

_Sherlock sighed and frowned._

_"Ah, didn't like it then? What didn't you like?"_

_Sherlock's frown lessened a bit. Usually, people asked you what you DID like about a book. This was different._ _"Captain Hook. He was a coward, and stupid besides."_

_He could hear the smile in the librarian's voice beside him. "So naturally, you want a book with a clever pirate. Have you ever heard of "Treasure Island"?"_

_Sherlock smiled. "Yes. My brother says I'm too stupid to understand it, though. I think he's wrong."_

_"How old are you?"_

_Sherlock felt his heart sink a little. "Five."_

_"Well, any five year old who can read Peter Pan and think Captain Hook is a big girl's blouse can handle Treasure Island. How about I get a biography on a real pirate, too?"_

_Sherlock smiled. He was going to visit this librarian more often_.

In the span of seconds, more memories of visits with this librarian popped up, half-deleted, with bits and pieces missing, and he never saw her face in them – he had deleted _that_ quite soundly - but it's enough to remind him that he _cared_ about this librarian, and when she left after she'd graduated it _hurt_. But there was something – something –

_And now he's being pulled, dragged, by an invisible force through the hallways and maze of his mind palace, and he stops at room that is covered in dust and has been carefully barricaded and tucked away. The doors blow open and his heart is thudding heavily in his chest as he enters, and the room is full of filing cabinets and toys and reminders of that time from his childhood when emotions controlled him, and they were too extreme, too different – and the difference was painful – the extreme joy and happiness of being clever, and having the cleverest dog that ever was, and having a librarian that knows you're clever and treats you like it, contrasted with the utter sorrow and despair of losing your favorite librarian and your best friend, your dog, and your brother thinks you're an idiot and it's so painful Sherlock turns to go, to run away. But every filing cabinet bursts open at the same time, and he is trapped in a gale of paper and memories, and then he remembers that he's Sherlock Bloody Holmes and HE'S in charge of this and he takes a deep breath and stops all of this nonsense._

_Immediately, the papers drop to the floor. Except one, which flutters gracefully into his open palms. It's a photograph. It's a woman with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair, and blue eyes that are always smiling_ (Josephine's eyes are always smiling) _and she has round cheeks and a thin nose that turns up just a bit at the end_ (Sarah Jane's nose turns up at the end) _and he knows who it is, but he still turns the photo over and there is her name – his librarian – Evelyn Burlingame_.

Sherlock opened his eyes. His face was stoic and statue-esque, but his eyes were narrowed and he breathed through his nose. The craftiness was gone from his eyes, and to anyone else, he'd have looked no different than he did ten seconds ago. John Watson, however, was not anyone else. He was Sherlock's best friend, and he noticed immediately that something was off.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking anxiously between Josephine and his best friend. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock turned on his heel, turned his coat collar up, and strode out of the library with all the purpose of a general at war. John stared at his back for a moment, before glancing back at Josephine, Sarah, and the young boy in confusion. He sighed, and went after his friend.

* * *

It had taken Sherlock two days of perfect stillness in his armchair at Baker Street, sifting through memories and facts in his mind palace to work his brain around the fact that Ian, Josephine, and Sarah Jane were the three children of his favorite childhood librarian. And this changed things. He wasn't sure he could explain exactly how, but it did. He couldn't…_dislike_ them, or pretend _indifference_ to them, now that he saw how similar they were to someone he loved when he was a boy. And he saw the similarities, now that he was looking for them. In Josephine's baking, in her round cheeks and smiling eyes and in that steel will and iron self-control, and in her ability to acknowledge that children were children but still treat them like little adults. In Sarah Jane's little nose and in her methodical, careful way of doing things, and in her wavy blonde hair. In Ian's wide smile and loud laugh and in his _silliness_ – although, Evelyn was only silly when she thought no one important was watching. Ian was always ridiculous.

Sherlock had admitted he cared for – _loved_ – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, Mary, and Molly. He had vowed to protect John, Mary, and Baby Watson. He could not care for anyone else. It was dangerous, impractical, and impossible. He could not see the Conners again until he was sure he did not care about them.

But he could look into their parents deaths.

* * *

**Ooooh, a bit of a teaser for the next chapter! :) **

**I've seen His Last Vow, so stop reading if you don't want some minor spoilers. I'm doing some calculating in my head...in my head, my thought is that after the springish/summery wedding, Sherlock and John meet the Conners. They spend the summer getting to know them, on and off on a few light cases, and then September is when Lady Smallwood arrives, asking Sherlock to take the case with Magnusson. Will there be a connection between Magnusson and Robert and Evelyn Conners' deaths? There's a lot of reasons to hate him, maybe I'll add one more. :)**


	6. In Which Love is a Puzzle

**Hi! Wow! I'm on a roll! Three chapters in two days! The next few chapters will be following closely with the plot line of His Last Vow, so there will be MAJOR SPOILERS. Emphasis is shifting away from the Conners siblings and towards Sherlock's relationships with his pressure points. **

**Apologies for any spelling or grammar mistakes and for not having British slang down. Hopefully I don't sound too ridiculous.**

**Please review. :)**

* * *

_Chapter Six, In Which Love is a Puzzle_

Sherlock had been researching the deaths of Robert and Evelyn Conners for five days. They had died in a car accident, and it had been ruled foul play because the breaks had been tampered with, and a greeting card with a grotesque version of a children's nursery rhyme had been found on Evelyn's body. However, no suspect had ever been named, and no murderer had ever been caught. It was a cold case, and the previous generation of the men and women of Scotland Yard had apparently passed along their ineptness to the Scotland Yard of this generation, because everything he dredged up on the case was full of mistakes and lost chances for obtaining evidence. He had a strong suspicion that the lead inspector on the Conners' case was somehow related to Anderson.

The nursery rhyme disturbed him, just a bit, because it reminded him of a certain psychopath who had a fetish for fairy tales and playing games, but that man was dead and gone. Although, all psychopaths must start _somewhere_, so it was certainly a possibility that Robert and Evelyn Conners were two of the early victims of one James Moriarty. It didn't matter, really, though, because after a few days of travelling about London and the surrounding towns and hours of research, there were dead ends all around, and he was about to go out of his mind with frustration at the police force's stupidity when a knock on the door sounded at precisely 11:17 p.m.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and given her exclamation of surprise and recognition, and her hurried assurances that she'd let Sherlock know _right away_, and her footsteps fairly flying up the stairs in an uneven gait (blast that hip), Sherlock knew a relatively well-known, important client had come to call.

"Oooh, Sherlock, look at you. It's all a mess, a right mess, and now she's come – I'll put on some tea, don't you worry, but try to make a good impression Sherlock – oh! Don't let her look in that fridge of yours." She was wringing her hands and pulling her dressing gown around her and fidgeting with her hair. Sherlock smirked.

"Tell Lady Smallwood she may come up whenever she pleases. And don't bother with the tea, I gather she won't be staying for long."

Mrs. Hudson gasped. "Oooh!" She scolded, "You behave yourself – Lady Smallwood coming, in my home, at this hour – you behave yourself. And I _will_ make a cuppa."

After glancing around at the room once again, obviously in distress at the state of it, she puttered down the stairs and encouraged the client to head on up, and that she'd be in, in a moment with some tea.

"That really won't be necessary, Mrs?"

"Hudson, deari- I mean, ma'am, and I'll bring it up right quick. Just don't let the state of the place turn you off him, he's so good at what he does."

Sherlock smiled, in spite of himself, and straightened the suit-coat he was still wearing around his waist.

* * *

Sherlock stared in concentration, motionless in his chair. The remnants of the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought in, and Lady Smallwood had not touched, sat long cold on the tea tray beside him.

Lady Smallwood had given him the first ten he'd had since Moriarty had died. He'd heard the name _Charles Augustus Magnusson _before, of course – Moriarty had used Magnusson himself, to get information about the cabbie, Jeff Hope, and that girl hiding from the Black Lotus, along with information on Sherlock's own _pressure points_ before the Fall. Sherlock had also been peripherally aware of his brother's dealings with the man, specifically in the cases involving The Woman. Mycroft certainly wouldn't be pleased to hear he'd taken on a case to bring the man down.

_Never stopped you before_. John's voice echoed in his head, and Sherlock shook it away impatiently. He knew that he could not involve John in this, not right away. It was dangerous, and with Baby Watson on the way, he couldn't risk it. In fact, he knew he would have to put some distance between him and all of his _pressure points_ for this case. Actually – and a thought nagged at him, one that disturbed him and excited him in equal measure – he'd have to convince Magnusson that he wasn't a threat at all – that he was worthless and useless, and that his pressure points weren't worth applying pressure to. And he knew how to do that. His veins tingled with warning and anticipation. He could do this. He was strong enough. But first, he needed a way into Magnusson's life.

* * *

He'd found his 'in' soon enough in that bridesmaid of Mary's – Janine. The thought that it was somehow too perfect a coincidence that he was paired, at his best friend's wedding, with the one woman who could grant him access to Magnusson's private offices, was one that he repeatedly pushed down. He didn't believe in luck, or coincidence, but he was choosing for now to believe that he was just clever enough to realize a perfect opportunity when it was placed in front of him.

And he seized that opportunity. After watching the interactions of John and Mary, Casey and Jo, and even Molly and Tom, he'd had plenty of knowledge about how to woo a woman. And he was nothing if not _excellent _at applying knowledge. Sherlock tracked down Janine – after he'd realized her day job, of course – and immediately began putting his observations to the test. Pleasant _dull_ conversation, casual physical contact to let her know he was interested, invitations to coffee, to lunch, to dinner, made way to breakfasts shared at either his flat or hers. And there was kissing, of course, and the sharing of a bed, but for all her flirting and feistiness, she really was understanding of his need to _take it slowly_ and didn't press him terribly for anything more than a good snog. Of course, if necessary, he was prepared to take his ruse all the way – Magnusson was that important to take down – but thankfully, it had not come to that yet.

A few weeks later, nearing October, Janine was at work and he was in his mind palace, putting together the pieces of the next part of his plan. Once he had established himself firmly with Janine, he needed to 'discredit' himself in the eyes of Magnusson. He knew the best, fastest, and surest way to do that was to relapse. He ignored the fighting voices of John, and strangely, Molly, in his mind, gagged them both, and told himself it was for the best. The world would be a better place with Magnusson out of power.

He was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, and the entrance of Josephine and Sarah Jane Conners. He started, eyes wide for a moment, before gaining control and frowning at their presence.

"You need to leave."

Josephine raised her eyebrows. "Good to see you too, Sherlock. Yes, we've been well. Sarah Jane's doing well in school-"

"You really do need to leave. I'm on a case."

"Yes, well, we'll only be a moment. Go on, Sarah Jane."

Sarah Jane had been studying the lounge curiously, and her eyes were firmly glued to the bullet-hole smiley face in the wall. "Er – right. Um," she began, blushing a bit, and she fumbled with a small package in a grocery bag and held it out to Sherlock. "I wanted to say thank you for letting me help you on some of your cases. I really like it, and…thank you for understanding about Lucy. Thanks."

She walked forward and placed the bag in front of him on the side table. "I made it myself. It's a bit of a puzzle. You'll solve it in five seconds, I'm sure, but…I just wanted to say thank you."

"And you have." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. They needed to leave.

Josephine smirked at him. "You're supposed to _open_ a gift when you get it Sherlock." When he didn't move, she made to sit down on the sofa across from him.

He understood her meaning loud and clear – _if you don't open this gift and tell Sarah thank you I'm staying here for as long as I can before work._ Which for Jo, was only an hour. Unfortunately, he didn't have an hour to waste with their stares and awkward silence, and he didn't need her _singing and humming_ right now.

And, although he'd hoped that avoiding the Conners would be enough to distance himself from them for this case, he still wasn't sure about his feelings toward them, and could not let them be used as a pressure point, if it came down to that. They weren't much of one, but they still saw themselves as his – _acquaintances_, if not friends, and he'd rather not be responsible for whatever misfortune might occur to them. He needed to get rid of them, for the next few weeks, maybe months.

So he did.

Sherlock's face stayed perfectly calm and stoic, as he unwrapped Sarah Jane's 'puzzle'. It was framed artwork. She had obviously made it herself. Straight lines crossed at odd angles, in patterns creating triangles and quadrilaterals in varying sizes and shapes. She had shaded the various shapes with different colours – shades of gray and blue and purple. It looked like a mess of modern art, but his quick mind saw a pattern in the lines – and in the spaces. It was a code of some sort – that much was certain – but he didn't have time to process it at the moment. He needed them gone, and out of his mind, and out of his hair, and he needed them gone for a long time.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then tossed the picture across the room. It crashed against the wall, cracking the glass, and landed in the rubbish bin. He stared, unfeeling, at the two girls in front of him, and repeated himself for the last time.

"You need to leave."

He leveled his stare at Josephine, because she was the master of her emotions, and he knew that with tears in her eyes and mouth opened in shock, Sarah Jane would look too much like her mother. Josephine's eyes weren't smiling anymore. They were angry – but they were also suspicious. Good. It meant she understood something was going on. Maybe he'd have a chance after this case to get back into her good graces again. Then again, it didn't really matter. He'd probably have to find a new technician – one without any relation to his childhood- if he couldn't get a reign on these blasted emotions.

Sarah Jane blinked rapidly, but he retreated to his mind palace, and it was an hour later before he realized that they were gone and he had a new text.

I'm not sure what that was about, but when it's over you owe us an apology. –Jo

Sherlock stretched, feeling the muscles and bones stretch and crack into place after sitting in one place for so long. He deleted the text, and walked to the kitchen for some coffee. He passed the bin with Sarah's puzzle in it, and stared at. He picked it up, and studied it.

As the coffee brewed, he recognized that the puzzle was a square – twenty-six even spaces on all four sides, and from the indentation and sharpness of the pencil mark on the top line, he could tell that Sarah Jane had started to draw the puzzle there – at space number nineteen - S. He followed that line to the space on the right hand side of the square – space number eight – H. He continued to follow it, and realized that it was his name – Sherlock – spelled over and over and over, connecting the four sides of the square until it was filled with a myriad of shapes. His lips twitched, and he silently thanked Sarah Jane for the gift. It was rather thoughtful.

As the coffee finished, he stared at the puzzle again, committing it to memory. Then he shoved it down into the rubbish bin, beneath egg shells and coffee grounds and something that looked suspiciously like a human kidney, and refocused his mind on the Magnusson case.


	7. In Which a Rose has Thorns

**Hello! One more chapter for the weekend. Again, this chapter contains major spoilers for His Last Vow, and follows it very, very closely.**

**The Conners will not appear very often until the end of episode three, and even then, only bits and pieces. I'm trying my hand at writing the main show characters more, and I'm happy with the results.**

**Let me know what you think. :)**

**I do not own Sherlock.**

_Chapter Seven, In Which a Rose has Thorns_

Janine had not minded when Sherlock said he'd be out for a week or so on a case. He'd warned her that he was going undercover, and that it involved drugs and some less desirable places in London (that was what people in relationships _did_, after all – let their 'loved ones' know when they'd be absent for an extended amount of time). She'd frowned for a moment, but then the flirty spark was back in her eyes, and she made a saucy remark about something dirty that Sherlock faintly recognized as a pop culture reference. So she was taken care of.

He didn't tell anyone what he was doing. Not Mycroft, not John, and certainly not anyone else he considered a friend. In this case, alone protected him as strongly as it had when Moriarty was alive.

He was strong enough for this.

* * *

Molly received a text as she was testing the blood of a woman who was suspected to have died from a peanut allergy.

Molly, have you seen Sherlock lately? – John

Molly frowned as she typed a reply.

No, hasn't been around for weeks.

And in all honesty, she was quite all right with that. Things had not been going well with Tom lately, and that last thing she needed was Sherlock around deducing her relationship status and taunting her with thoughts of light eyes and dark curls and what could never be. She didn't blame him – this was her own fault, this time.

But still, as much as she was relieved he wasn't here elevating her pulse and creating heartache, she did miss him. She'd grown stronger around him the two years he was "dead", the few weeks he stayed with her after his fall. When he left England with a simple _thank you, Molly Hooper_, and she hadn't heard from him in months, she'd dated, and moved on, and found Tom, and it was lovely. Even when he returned, she found herself less intimidated and more sure of herself around him. She was proud of herself, and she really did consider him a friend, despite the pain of unrequited love in her chest she had become better and better at squashing.

It was unusual for him to be gone for so long. Usually, when there wasn't a case around, he was finding a way to get himself into trouble in her lab, or pestering her for body parts. She trusted completely that he could take care of himself – his two year stint taking down Jim's web of criminals proved that – but she did worry about him. It was probably nothing, and it wasn't really her business at all anyways, but she bit her lip and sent John another reply.

Everything all right? – MH

* * *

John wasn't really _worried_ about Sherlock. He was a grown man, for goodness sake. He had a knack for getting himself into trouble, but he was certainly capable of taking care of himself. When Mary had pointed out that they hadn't heard from him in nearly a month, and Sherlock didn't respond to any texts, he decided that maybe he should make sure Sherlock wasn't starving to death because he'd been too lazy to go to the grocery. Mrs. Hudson had let him in, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. The flat was a mess, as usual, but it looked like he hadn't been there in a while. It was odd. Probably on case, of course, but John had to admit he was a bit put off that Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask him to come. He was _married_, after all – not _dead_.

After receiving no answer from Mrs. Hudson, John texted Lestrade and Molly, just to be sure. Neither had heard anything from him in weeks, and that made him more irritated than he was before. He assured them both everything was fine – it _was_, it wasn't like there were any maniacs threatening London anymore – but John Watson did have an uneasy feeling about it all. Sherlock had been a bit off since he'd dashed out of the library over a month ago. He didn't tell John what it was all about, and he'd recovered soon enough, but afterwards he'd spent two days in his mind palace and then almost a week traipsing about London without explaining what he was doing.

John rolled his eyes and went home. Sherlock would contact him when he was good and ready – he was done chasing after him like he was a missing dog.

* * *

John was awoken the next morning by a pounding on the door. Not a pounding, really – more of an urgent knocking. He opened it to see their neighbor, Kate Whitney, crying on the front steps. She looked a complete mess.

"I know it's early," she sniffed, trying very hard to hold herself together as Mary shuffled into view, pulling her robe on. She broke into muffled crying, and the only word he could make out was "sorry" as she placed her face in her hands.

"Is that Kate?" Mary asked, concerned.

"Yeah, it's Kate," he said looking between his wife and neighbor.

"Invite her in?" Mary prompted, giving him a look that he clearly understood as _John, let her in now, don't leave her crying on our doorstep_.

"Right, yes, of course – d'you want to come in, Kate?" He held the door open for her, sleep and worry still clouding his face.

A few moments later, with tea on the table and Kate composing herself on the sofa, John and Mary sat waiting to hear the reason for their neighbor's distress.

"It's Isaac," Mary said, slowly rubbing small circles on Kate's back, sympathy etched on her face.

"Isaac – your husband?"

"Her son," Mary corrected quickly, giving him another look.

"Son, yeah." John said, trying in vain to rub the fog of sleep from his face and mind.

"He's gone missing again," Kate hiccupped. "Didn't come 'ome last night." She shook her head in disbelief.

"The usual," Mary sighed.

"Is there drugs, then?" John said, beginning to understand. He was so very glad his wife was a morning person.

"Uh, yeah, John, nicely put," Mary said, as Kate broke down crying again.

"Well," John said, confused, "Is it Sherlock Holmes you want, then? Because I've not seen him in ages."

"A _month_," Mary corrected.

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" Kate asked, drying her eyes with a tissue.

"See?" Mary asked, giving a sideways glance, almost smug, to the woman next to her. "That does happen."

Kate sighed shakily. "There's a – a place they all go to. Him 'n his – friends. They all – do whatever they do…" She paused, and then added tearfully, "Shoot up. Wha'ever you call it."

"Where is he?" John asked, realizing that he was probably going to have to do something about Isaac himself. In fact, he _wanted_ to do something about Isaac himself.

"S'a house. It's a _dump_," Kate answered, her words getting angrier and less worried. "It's practically fallin' down."

"No, the address."

Kate looked between John and Mary with wide eyes.

"Where, _exactly_?" John asked again, his blood already turning to adrenaline as he realized what his offer was about to entail. A month without Sherlock had been a very tame one, and his body – _all right, him – all of him -_ craved the excitement.

* * *

He didn't expect Sherlock to be there. Of all the places, of all the things, he did not expect Sherlock to be there. It was a peculiar feeling, feeling so many things at once. His stomach turning in disgust and dropping to his feet in disbelief and his heart leaping into his throat in betrayal and pain and – well not shock, really, he'd known Sherlock had a problem with drugs in the past – but – okay, it was shock. The _bloody fool_. The _idiot_. _What the hell had he been thinking_?

* * *

Molly was on her coffee break when she received the call. It had been a lousy week. She and Tom had agreed to break off the engagement. They both agreed to it, but it still hurt, and she was dreading telling everyone. She was glad that she hadn't seen Greg, or John, or Sherlock in weeks, and was especially glad that she hadn't seen them this week. It had been a lousy week. A completely lousy week, and Molly just _knew_ it couldn't get any worse.

It did.

John Watson's name flashed on her cell's caller I.D. She sighed, not wanting to take it. _You'll have to face them all sooner or later. Best get it over with. Besides, he may not even be coming to the morgue. Maybe he'll just want to ask about Sherlock again._

But she knew, really, that John would've texted – he only called to warn her when he and Sherlock were about to impose on her hospitality. And she didn't want this, not today, but again – _best to get it over with_.

"John?"

"Molly?" A female voice asked from the other end of the line. John's wife?

"Er…yeah. Is this Mary?"

"Yeah. Sorry, love. We need a favor." She sounded apologetic.

"Oh?" Molly was certainly confused now. "Is it…is it about the baby?"

"Oh! Goodness, no. Baby's fine. We're fine. It's…well…Sherlock needs a favor."

"Okay." She said, her heart beginning to race. "What does he need?"

"A drug test."

Molly's heart froze for a moment, her mouth open. There had to be some mistake. She'd known, of course, that Sherlock had had problems with drugs in the past – from both the telltale scars and Greg's stories of old Sherlock. But that was not her Sherlock – her Sherlock was _brilliant_, and good and brave and he jumped off of buildings to save the people he loved, and even if one of those people wasn't her, she still _counted_. He caught criminals and he was _never_ stupid – maybe socially inept, but _never _stupid. Drugs were stupid. Taking drugs was the epitome of stupid behavior. And Sherlock was not stupid.

But Mary had said they'd needed a drug _test_. There was still hope – maybe – maybe he'd just been undercover. Maybe he hadn't taken any. Maybe…

"Molly?" Mary's voice sounded worried on the other end.

"Sorry. Yeah. All right. A drug test. How far are you?"

"Ten minutes, at most."

"Right. I'll have it ready."

"Thanks."

After the call had disconnected, Molly sat blinking at her phone for a few minutes. She realized her hands were trembling. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ The word seemed to be following her around more than ever. Falling in love with Sherlock – _stupid_. Going out with Jim – _stupid_. Dressing up for Sherlock at Christmas – _stupid_. Dating Tom, despite the fact he looked like Sherlock – _stupid_. Falling in love with Tom – _stupid_. Agreeing to marry Tom because Sherlock would never come back, and certainly would never come back to her – _stupid_. Spending time with Sherlock after he did come back – _stupid._ Grinning like a fool at John and Mary's wedding as he said the most perfect best man speech ever, complete with solved murder – _stupid_. Seeing him leave, _sad_, and not going after him – _stupid_. But it would have been stupid to go after him, too.

Molly sighed, and began to prepare the drug tests. She was no longer going to be stupid when it came to Sherlock Holmes. She loved him, and she would always love him, but she could be smart about it. She could be his friend. She could protect her heart.

* * *

Sherlock was angry. He was angry with John, for finding him at the drug den. He was angry with Billy, for letting John in in the first place. He was angry with Magnusson for being an immoral blackmailing monster, and maybe – just maybe – he was angry with himself.

* * *

He swallowed and eyed the ceiling as Molly finished the tests. He knew, of course, that he was dirty. He was dirty all over, and as he was on the comedown, he felt it. He felt the heaviness of his unwashed hair and the stubble on his cheeks. He felt the stinging of the puncture wounds near his veins and the itchiness of his skin. He felt the sour taste of his breath and the oppressive stink of his own unwashed body. He could even feel the grime and grittiness of his clothing.

All of these he had felt before. But this time, he also felt dirty _inside_, and it wasn't just the diminishing feeling of the drugs coursing through his blood. There was also an unfamiliar feeling of – _remorse_? _Guilt_? Something odd, like he didn't want John, or Molly, to know the results.

Which was ridiculous, of course. The whole point of this drug den relapse was to convince Magnusson that he was not a threat, and how could he prove that if no one knew about his 'relapse'?

He could hear Molly peeling off her gloves angrily behind him.

"Well?" John asked, voice short and tense. He already expected the answer – already knew –

"Clean," Molly answered, her voice soft and low and surprisingly calm.

John pursed his lips and crossed his arms in acknowledgement. Molly was lying – of course – because officially, he had to be clean, to continue working on cases – and if he didn't have cases, he'd probably wind up right back –

SLAP.

John looked on, angry approval on his face, and the rest of the little group looked up in shock as Molly gave Sherlock a good, old-fashioned, open-palmed, lady-like blow across the face. And then another. And another.

* * *

As Molly's hand connected with his face, the first thing Sherlock noticed was that her engagement ring was gone. He suspected this might happen, after first meeting Tom, and especially after the meat dagger incident at the wedding.

The second thing he noticed was the pain on his face. Molly had a surprisingly strong arm.

The third, and unexpected thing, he noticed was the pain in his chest. He supposed this slapping was an appropriate, or at least typical, reaction given the circumstances. He had just expected John to be the physical aggressor, in this case. He certainly had been when Sherlock rose from the dead. The fact that it was Molly slapping him…it was just unexpected. Unexpectedly painful.

"How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gift you were born with and how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends. _Say you're sorry_."

The anger flared up again, this time directed at John and Molly, John and Molly – who didn't understand, who didn't get that this was _just for a case_. Did they really underestimate him so? Did they truly believe he would just _throw away_ his gift and everyone he cared about? Perhaps he had disappointed them, but they'd disappointed him, too.

"Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm very grateful for lack of a ring." Sarcasm laced his words as he rubbed the sting out of his face. Strange, that it didn't rub the sting out of his chest as well.

But his barb at Molly's expense didn't send her cowering away like he'd expected.

"Stop it. Just _stop it_." She was still staring at him earnestly, hurt and anger welling up in her dark brown eyes.

And then there was John, pacing angrily, shaking a hand in his face – "If you were _anywhere_ near this thing again, you could've called – you could've _talked_ to me." And his eyes, filled with equal amounts of hurt and anger.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Please_ do relax. This was all for a case." He didn't usually repeat himself, but – he wanted them to understand.

"What kind of _case_ would need you to do _this_?" John asked incredulously.

"I might've asked you why you've started cycling to work."

John laughed in disbelief. "No. Nope. We're not playing this game."

But they did. John Watson really was an addict to intrigue, action, and adventure, and the little deductions _Billy Wiggins_ made proved it. He'd been waiting for the next adventure, but Sherlock was not sorry that he hadn't called him in on this one. Now that John had found out about the drug den, however, it might be a bit more difficult to shake him. He'd be watched like a hawk. And despite Sherlock's misgivings with Magnusson, John could certainly handle himself. Perhaps he wouldn't try to force John away for the rest of this case. He could use the company.

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he smirked as he checked it. "Finally!" He muttered.

"Finally what?" Molly asked, in that same hurt, low voice.

"Good news?" Billy asked, still nursing the sprain John had given him.

"Ah, _excellent_ news. The _best - _" he said, glancing up at Molly, then at John, earnestly, willing them to understand that public knowledge of his drug use was _good news_ for his _case_, because even though he wanted to push them away for the time being, he didn't want them to give up on him. " – the newspapers have gotten wind of my drug habit. The game is _on_!"

And he was grinning, still partially high, as he exited the lab doors with a flourish. "Excuse me." He looked back, "For a second."

* * *

After Sherlock had left, followed shortly by John, Mary, and the two others with them (John had thanked her curtly, still angry with Sherlock, and Mary had hugged her, eyes filled with sympathy and worry), Molly was left alone with a tube full of Sherlock's urine and a lab to clean.

Molly tried not to, but as she cleaned, she couldn't help but think back to the day when Sherlock had told her that she counted, that she'd always counted, and the chaos in the month that followed.

_She's been surprisingly calm all day. Watching Sherlock fall, throwing the dead body, performing the false autopsy, holding John's hand with tears in her own eyes, watching John's back as he was led away by Lestrade – she's been remarkably calm. But now she's exhausted, and a bit nervous, because Sherlock said he'd be in and out of her flat for the next few weeks, to tie up loose ends here before leaving for who-knows-where to tie up loose ends there. _

_But he's not there. Nor is there any sign that he'd been there. She sighs, whether in relief or disappointment, she's not sure. She locks the door behind her, and automatically bolts the chain, but then thinks better of it and leaves the chain hanging, in case Sherlock meant what he said before and really will be at her flat later. _

_She also curses herself for it, because heaven knows she's done enough already, but she leaves out some biscuits and fruit, and things to make tea on the counter, and sets out a pillow and blanket on the sofa for him, just in case. _

_When she wakes the next morning, an apple is gone and there are tea things in the sink, but the pillow and blanket are untouched. She doesn't have much time to think about it, though, because Greg's calling her and apologizing profusely but she needs to come in and give a statement. _

_When she returns, she jumps a little at the sight of Sherlock in her armchair, eyes far away as he thinks about who-knows-what. Then she notices the yellow roses on the table. _

_Half smiling, half frowning (is such a thing possible? But it feels like that's what her mouth is doing), she mumbles 'hullo' and hangs up her coat and scarf, eyes still on the yellow roses. She's wondering if she's hallucinating, because surely Sherlock Holmes wouldn't buy anyone flowers, even if they did help him fake his death. _

_"Molly." There is both greeting and warning in his voice._

_"What? Sorry. I didn't – I mean – what?"_

_"Don't read too much into it. The person I was…watching happens to own a flower shop as a cover business. I had to buy something while I was in there. Though, I suppose I should say thank you. Yellow is your colour, if I'm not mistaken."_

_Of course he's not mistaken. He probably deduced that ages ago, but if not, the décor in her flat has probably alerted him to that fact. Still, she smiles, because he didn't have to buy yellow roses - he could've bought a cactus- but he thought of her, and said his own version of thank you, and it made her heart warm. _

He left a half-wilted rose (probably picked it up off the street) with the note he scrawled on a napkin – _Thank you Molly Hooper – _before he left, as well. She'd cried for days when she realized he wasn't coming back. And then she'd moved on. Apparently, she hadn't moved far enough.

* * *

After introducing John to Janine and the altercation with his brother, Sherlock was on edge. Still on the comedown, he knew he needed to sort the rubbish from the past few days out of his mind palace. So he began.

When he got to the memory of Molly slapping him, he paused for a moment. He realized he probably didn't have the emotional and mental strength to delete it yet, because his body reacted every time he tried. He'd have to delete it once he was clean again.

He paused again, as his chest tightened and stung. He had not expected Molly Hooper to have thorns. She was a delicate thing, but she had her own defenses, and he'd never expected that she'd use them on him.


	8. In Which There is a Record of Wrongs

**Hello! I wanted to say thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has followed my story or reviewed. **

**Thank you. :)**

_Chapter Eight, In Which There is a Record of Wrongs_

Sherlock recognized the perfume almost immediately as Clair de la Lune.

"Where do I know it?" he mumbled, filtering through all of his female acquaintances and their personal scents in his mind.

"Mary wears it," John answered, focused on monitoring Janine's condition.

"No, no…" Why would Mary's perfume be _here_ in Magnusson's office? Sherlock made a mental note to correct John on his blatantly idiotic deductions later. Did he _seriously_ think at all about what he had just said? Really, after offering to call the police during their _own_ burglary of Magnusson's office, this was just too much. John's mind had gotten even rustier these past few weeks without him.

And then the match fit – "Lady Smallwood," he realized under his breath. She'd gotten impatient, wanted to protect her husband herself. Sherlock scoffed. Human error.

* * *

It wasn't Lady Smallwood.

That fact was seared into his mind as surely as the bullet seared through his torso.

_Liar_.

Mary.

It's not like in the movies, is it?

SLAP.

His lifeline.

Focus. _Focus_.

Sherlock, you need to fall backwards.

I agree.

Of course you agree, Anderson, you're an _idiot_, and Molly -

Fall backwards, _now_.

Calm down, little brother.

Redbeard.

Molly again, with Josephine's shadow – and that word, echoing – _control_. Self…control.

_Moriarity_.

_You always FEEL it, but you don't have to FEAR it._

_It's raining, it's pouring and Sherlock is boring._

_I'm laughing, I'm crying, 'cause Sherlock is dying._

Calm down. Let go.

Mrs. Hudson. Mummy and Daddy. John.

Molly – no, not Molly. Jim didn't know about Molly.

Mary. Mary the _liar_. John.

_Vows_.

No pain.

Pain.

Darkness.

* * *

John was too distracted, too concentrated on saving his best friend's life to call anyone until after Sherlock was back from the dead – _again_.

_Figures the bloody wanker would cheat death twice_.

And he's so, so glad.

* * *

Molly was – _where else_ – at work when she received the call from John. His voice was odd, thick with some hard emotion and she could tell he'd been – crying? But he was also laughing.

"John? What - what's wrong?"

He swore some, under his breath, and then laughed again, too high in pitch, and it made Molly's heart constrict. "John?"

"He's – he's all right Molly. No. He's not all right. He's – he's alive."

"Who's alive?" Her voice dropped low again, but she knew exactly whom John meant.

"Sherlock. Don't worry Molly – don't…he's…well, you might want to come see him. I…well, I've called everyone…and you all…he's going to need us. Course he'll never admit it, bloody -"

"John, what happened?"

Silence on the other end, and she could tell John was trying to compose himself. "He got himself shot."

"Shot?" Molly breathed, and her hands were shaking again.

"Yes, shot, but he's going to live, he's going to _live_." And he'd started laughing and crying, and Molly realized it was relief. Even though she knew that she'd be giddy with relief soon as well, she hadn't lived through the shock part yet, and it was hitting her hard, now.

She gasped as she remembered to breathe, and ended her call with John after finding out where he and Sherlock were located. This was, with the exception of the week her father died, the _worst_ week of her life.

* * *

John was fairly joyful with relief as he watched his wife bound up the stairs.

"He's already bloody woken up," he greeted her, unable to wipe the grin off his face. "He's pulled through!"

"Really? Seriously?" Mary said, relief in her voice as well.

"Yeah, yeah. And you," he added, shaking a finger at her, teasing, still ecstatic at the news that his best friend was alive, "Mrs. Watson. You're in big trouble."

"Really? Why?" Her face betrayed nothing, nothing but concern and relief for her husband.

"His first word when he woke up?" He shook his head. "Mary!" And his grin was back, and she threw her arms around him.

Her face fell as she rested her cheek on his jacket. She needed to talk to Sherlock.

* * *

Molly stood, wringing her hands, tears burning her eyes, at the foot of Sherlock's hospital bed. She had never seen him like this, and it hurt her. She was _not_ going to cry in front of him, though, not ever, not even when he was unconscious, and she needed to be strong for him. She needed to be calm, and so, even though others might judge, she put on her pathologist hat and thought of him as a living body (which thankfully, he was, of course), and she looked at his chart.

He would live. Obviously. What was she even doing here? Even if he were awake, nothing she could say would help him. He'd probably criticize her for trying. And she _was_ still angry with him over his relapse. She'd forgiven him, of course, but she was still angry.

"Well, looks like you'll have to wait just a bit longer to visit me in the morgue. As one of my patients, I mean."

She could almost hear his voice in her head, and so, because it was so quiet, and she could barely stand the whoosh of the respirator and the beep of the heart monitor, she said what she knew he would say, if he were awake. "I know, I know Sherlock. _Don't make jokes, Molly_."

And then, she added, "Sorry. I really am glad you're not dead."

Another awkward pause. "This is really stupid of me, isn't it?"

She babbled on, "I know you would think so if you were awake, and it won't make a difference in the slightest, but I am so, so very glad you're not dead. I never want to see you dead."

Another pause, and Molly's voice changed - lower now. "That's why I slapped you, Sherlock. Even with that brilliant mind of yours, in a drug-stupor, you could be killed. By something stupid, like a dirty knife or another druggie or a fall or an overdose – and I know, I _know_ that you've cheated death twice now, but they always say third time's the charm, and you're too…_you_ to be killed by something stupid like that."

"And I'm not sorry I slapped you. I'm sorry…I'm not." A sigh, and a whisper. "Well, maybe a little sorry."

Molly knew she needed to leave. This was pointless, and she felt embarrassed, despite knowing that no one could hear her.

Before she turned to go, she took a step closer to him, and whispered again, sadly gazing at his pale face. She wanted to touch him, to lay her hand over his, or perhaps on his cheek, but she knew he'd hate it if she did that. So she settled for folding her arms and picking absently at the fuzz on her jumper. "You told me once you hoped I'd be happy. That I deserved happiness. Don't know about that, but I do know this. If you think that for one moment I could be happy knowing you're out somewhere shooting drugs, you're not half as smart as you think you are."

Again, another admission. He was asleep anyways. Besides, this felt good, telling him everything. Like therapy. "I've tried to – to sever my happiness from your well-being, Sherlock. Heaven _knows_ I've tried. But I'm starting to accept the fact that even though you'll never love me, like I - do, I'll…well. I'll always be here. Always. Every time. If you need me."

That was enough. She swallowed the lump in her throat and shrugged stiffly. "Still angry though. You're bloody _lucky_, Sherlock. And – and I'm so glad."

She turned and walked, tired, from the room.

* * *

She was wrong, on several accounts. First, Sherlock was not asleep. He was conscious, but barely so. He was vaguely aware of her in the room, and her voice was distant to him, and blurred occasionally, but he could hear her.

She was wrong, too, about herself. It _did_ make a difference, her coming to see him. Her voice, her _real_ voice, not the voice in his head, assured him that he was, in fact, still alive. Of course, most of the other things she said did nothing to help him in the slightest (words do not heal bullet wounds), but he did find that they…lifted an invisible burden from his chest.

It was probably just coincidence. She'd just happened to say she was sorry she slapped him at the same time his mind and body registered the morphine in his system. But then, she'd thrown his words (_you deserve happiness, Molly Hooper_) back at him, and his chest had constricted again, and then lifted again when she said that she'd always be there for him. Still, he had to admit that having her in the room had not been an awful experience. He felt a slight pang when he realized that she didn't know yet, about the proposal, and Janine.

Finally, and most importantly, she was wrong on one last account – he wasn't _lucky_. He knew that shot was very carefully planned.

* * *

_You don't tell John, Sherlock. You can never, never tell John_.

And he wouldn't. Mary would tell him herself.

* * *

John was in a panic again. Sherlock was missing – he'd _escaped_ his hospital room, and was on the run, doing who-knows-what. Luckily, John was not only used to Sherlock, he was a veteran of war. Even with panic in his stomach, he was in control enough to call everyone he could think of to hunt Sherlock down.

He and Greg were pacing Sherlock's flat, trying to make some deductions of their own.

"He knew who shot him. The bullet wound was, here," John said, indicating the location of Sherlock's wound on his own chest. "So he was facing whoever it was."

Greg nodded. "So, why not tell us?" He groaned in realization. "Because he's tracking them down himself."

"Or protecting them," John added.

"Protecting the shooter? Why?"

John shook his head. "Well, protecting someone, then. But why would he care? He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?"

And then, as he sat down in the armchair, _his_ armchair, Sherlock's words from the wedding come back in an echo. He patted the arms of the chair, frowning.

"Call me if you hear anything. _Don't_ hold out on me, John. " Greg said sternly. "Call me, okay?"

John nodded, looking back at the inspector. "Yeah. Yeah. Right."

After Greg had let himself out and Mrs. Hudson was on her way to make him a cuppa, he stopped her. "Mrs. Hudson? Why does Sherlock think that I'll be moving back in here?"

She stopped for a moment, then realized he what he was referring to. "Oh, he's got your chair back again, doesn't he? Well," she dismissed, "it looks much better."

John didn't really hear her. He was staring, frowning, at the bottle of perfume on the table next to his chair. Realization was dawning on him, and it was as black as the night outside his window.

"John, what's wrong? Tell me."

But he couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell her everything that was right in the world was suddenly very, very wrong.

* * *

"Show me."

"Ah. A dummy. Obvious trick." Mary flipped a coin in the air, shooting it clean through, and kicking it to Sherlock when he surprised her from behind.

"Amazing. And yet, at a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot. Enough to hospitalize me, not enough to kill me." This was for John's benefit, of course. All this was for John. His vow.

"I'll take the case."

"What case?"

"Your case." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him, and I would lose him forever, and Sherlock, I will _never_ let that happen. Please – understand –there is nothing in this world I would not do, to stop that from happening."

But she underestimated John. Sherlock knew, he knew that this secret would not break him. Bend and twist him painfully, perhaps, but not break him, and he deserved to know the truth. "Sorry," he said, flipping the light switch and revealing John in the wheelchair down the hall. "It's not that obvious a trick."

* * *

Molly's second visit to Sherlock in the hospital was less pleasant for him. He was fully conscious, for one thing, and her words were not sweet or low. He had prepared himself for this, of course. He had carefully reviewed Jo's mind palace files on _self control _and was also grateful for the machinery and hospital atmosphere around him. It would make her decidedly less likely to slap him again.

"How could you. How _could_ you, Sherlock? You're _good_ – you're _not_ him. You're not _like _him. So why did you do this? Why -?"

"Molly." His voice, deep and full of resignation and warning and all sorts things that she couldn't quite place, stopped her.

"It was for the _greater good_. I've already heard this lecture from John, and I can assure you that what you're saying is nothing new."

"But _why_, Sherlock?"

His rolled his eyes, refusing to meet her own. "It was for a _case_, Molly. The man I am after is like a shark. He takes what he wants and leaves a trail of blood and destruction in his wake, as you are well aware." He gestured at himself.

"But _why_?" She said, and there were tears in her eyes.

"You mean why did I date Janine? Why did I seduce her, court her, gain her trust and use her to get to someone else, someone more important than herself?"

Molly winced, and he realized that he had just implied that he was more important than her. Which, while probably true, was also probably not good.

"The ends justify the means." His gaze was full on her, now.

Molly gritted her teeth and looked away, still refusing to cry. "You're a git."

He smirked. "Most likely."

And then he grunted, eyeing his morphine again. It was low, of course – he needed to think, but the pain was returning, and he'd have to turn it up soon.

"Well, Sherlock, you could've told me. Or John. Or anyone. You could've told us, about the case."

"No, I couldn't." His voice told her she was trying his patience.

"Sherlock," she said sadly, as she reached out her hand, then thought better of it and tucked it under her armpit, crossing her arms. "Sherlock, we know what kind of man you are. We're friends. You should have trusted us."

At her words, Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, eyes wide. He had just realized something.

Molly startled. "Are – are you okay? Are you in pain? Do you need something?"

He looked at her, his eyes boring holes into her heart. "I do trust you, Molly. It's the rest of the world I don't trust. Which is why I'm going to ask you to do something else for me. Do you remember Billy Wiggins?"

She snorts, suppressing a smile. "You mean 'Wiggy'?" She joked half-heartedly.

A smile twitched at his lips, and he dismissed the nickname with a wave of his hand. "Find him for me."

As an afterthought. "Please."

* * *

Sarah Jane received the text from Sherlock as she was reading _The Scorpio Races_. Her sister had read it several times to her the past two years, but she always loved to reread her favorite parts.

She frowned, and a hopeful sort of sadness pierced her chest. Maybe this was his apology, and she'd get to work on something of his again. He wasn't even supposed to have her number, but he _was_ Sherlock Holmes, after all.

_Can glasses be built that have the ability to access a remote hard drive database? – SH_

Sarah swallowed. Of course it wasn't an apology. Jo had warned her not to expect one for a while. She'd also told her that if he contacted her at all, she was to tell Jo and ignore him.

"He needs to apologize before we help him again, Sarah. You're not a tool. Do you understand?"

Sarah Jane understood. But this was just a simple question. She could answer it.

_Possible. Not probable, though._

She sent the text, wondering if he would reply.

He didn't. He didn't even thank her.

* * *

Molly came to visit him one more time before he was released. She had been very helpful, as always. He could tell that she was nervous about something, this time, and he scowled. He was done with hospital beds, and visitors, and was ready to get back to the game. His plan for taking Magnusson down was in action, and he didn't have time to listen to sentimental lectures again.

"Sherlock."

"If you're here to lecture me again, I can assure you I've memorized your speech." _And deleted it_, had added to himself. He didn't have time for this.

Molly pursed her lips, and from her stance (arms crossed firmly, right hand nervously picking at the lint on her jumper, biting her lower lip, eyes refusing to meet his immediately) he could tell that she was not here to lecture him on relapsing, or on using Janine. This was something else.

"You look….guilty."

He stopped himself from completing an eye roll. "Molly-"

"No, stop it – just - let me finish." She finally met his eyes, and a snort of nervous laughter told him she realized that this savored strongly of something they'd done before, something that seems like ages ago, now.

"You look guilty, but it's not about drugs or being an arse or even getting shot and being stupid and worrying everyone to death. You're not sorry about those things, and, well, maybe you're sorry about getting shot – sorry." She took a breath and continued.

"You look guilty about something you haven't done yet. Something you're planning. And you know my position on doing stupid things like pushing all of your friends away when - well, sorry. No lecturing. But…I'm still angry with you. Furious, actually. What I mean is…even though I'm angry, I still – I still l- I still care about you; you're still my friend. If there's anything you need…" and she couldn't help it, and Sherlock groaned internally a bit at the echo from the past as she finished "-you can have me."

She laughed nervously through her nose again, just a bit, and watched him with large brown eyes, waiting.

And he looked right back into them, and his heart constricted just a bit, but he blamed it on his recovery. She was such a _good _person, and he didn't deserve a friend like her. He sighed, and his lips twitched into a small, genuine smile. She was still waiting for a reply, an explanation, but he couldn't really give her one.

"I think we've done this before."

"Sherlock."

"I can assure you I'm not jumping off any buildings this time."

"That doesn't mean you're not planning something equally dangerous. And stupid."

"It doesn't require 'shooting up' again either. Or getting shot at."

"Good. Still doesn't mean it's not something stupid."

"Don't you trust me, Molly Hooper?"

"I trust you! I trust you to try and be a hero and save the world all by yourself. I trust you to save everyone's life but your own. And I…I don't -want…I don't want you to get hurt. Again. When you're hurt…Sherlock. I'm _unhappy_." Her eyes had tears in them now, and his chest constricted again. The doctors didn't do a very good job of stitching him back together.

He paused, and resisted the irrational urge to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His observations on emotions did indicate that physical contact was comforting, but he couldn't touch her now. He realized that she was worried, and she was using his own words to try to keep him from his work. He smirked, then frowned. He was a bad influence on her. "Molly Hooper. What I am doing, what I am planning to do, I am doing for a friend. John will be with me. I'll be fine." It's a little bit of a lie, but there was enough truth in it that she started to believe him.

She stared at the floor before looking at him one more time. "If you need anything…"

"I won't." He couldn't ask her for help again, not when he suspects what he suspects.

Her eyes met his again, and she was still sad, but the tears were gone, and she was satisfied for now.

She nodded and turned to go, but paused and looked back again. "Be careful," she whispered, and then she was gone.

* * *

It took until Christmas for John to truly forgive Mary. They say love covers over a multitude of wrongs, but one could understand love taking its time to cover a wrong so immense. And Mary wasn't the type to chase down a tube car full of explosives in order to garner forgiveness. Probably couldn't now, even if she wanted to, being pregnant and all.

Sherlock knew that John would forgive Mary. He _loved_ her after all.

Personally, _he_ hadn't needed to forgive her. He understood that she was protecting her best interests, and John, and she had shot him to save all three of them. Those were the facts, and he accepted them, and accepted Mary, as they were.

But Magnusson was still a ticking time bomb, and he needed to be stopped. Or, keeping with Mycroft's analogy, he needed to be slayed. He'd put the plan in motion, and soon the record of wrongs that Magnusson had so carefully collected and constructed around him would bury him.


	9. In Which Love Takes Revenge

**Hello! Thank you to all of the followers, and the favorites. It's really very encouraging!  
**

**Thank you also to Eienvine and miischall for the lovely reviews.  
**

**This is the last chapter that is based on Episode 3...the next chapter starts the dragon's reign of terror. *grins mischievously*. **

_Chapter 9, In Which Love Takes Revenge_

Sherlock had always known killing Magnusson was a possibility he might have to face. He had asked John to bring his revolver, after all.

The glasses had been a disappointment. They were regular glasses. Sarah's text had told him they _probably_ would be. Between Mycroft, and Moriarity, and himself, he knew that the ability to memorize and store copious amounts of information was possible, and with Magnusson, it was certainly _probable_. He just had to be sure that there were no other copies.

There weren't.

Magnusson had grown arrogant, had thought he'd beaten Sherlock, and had to rub it in his face. Good. Sherlock needed that, to be sure.

It made the rest of his plan more difficult, however. Because no copies meant that the only person privy to Magnusson's database was Magnusson himself. And while Magnusson had overestimated his own abilities, he'd underestimated Sherlock's.

There were bigger things, bigger players in all of this. It might be a mistake to kill Charles Augustus Magnusson, with his large and varied database of dirty secrets – his brother would certainly have a fit over it – but he did make a vow to John, after all. And Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a man of his word. Well, this word. Other words…not so much. The incident with Janine had proven that.

He knew there would be repercussions for this.

He didn't hesitate when he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Prison was not conducive to proper thought processes. A small sacrifice, to keep his vow to John, but it was growing larger by the day. Er, hour. All right, minute.

If hiding from prying eyes in and out of Molly Hooper's flat for three weeks after his 'suicide' was difficult, this was bordering on torture. It would be over soon, he knew. His dear brother would come to send him on a journey that he was never expected to return from.

Sherlock was anxious. The smallest things would interrupt him from his mind palace thoughts – the particular stretch of his sock across his pinky toe, the rub of his collar against his neck, the bristle of fabric from the bed, the creak of springs from the mattress. It had gone according to plan – mostly – he was still disappointed that he'd had to kill Magnusson (the world was better off without him, so not a _lot_ of remorse, there), and this business of exile was bothersome. It took all of his _self-control_ to keep from screaming and punching the walls of his cell.

But, as always, Sherlock had a plan.

He just hoped the person his plan hinged on would act before his time was up.

* * *

Molly – it was _always_ Molly, if it wasn't John – had given him his clue. He'd probably have recognized it himself sooner, had he not been recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest and drugged up on morphine.

It was what she said – "We know what kind of a man you are. We're friends. You should have trusted us."

It was an echo of what Janine had said to him, earlier. Connecting her words to Janine's had opened her door in his mind palace, and synapses suddenly connected and before him, in plain sight, was something quite suspect.

What had Moriarty called him, as he was…dying? _Sherl._

Who else called him _Sherl_? Only one other person – Janine.

Perhaps his subconscious was trying to tell him something.

As he dug deeper, he began connecting dots and mapping out answers.

_"I may have fiddled with your morphine a bit."_

_"How much more revenge are you going to need?"_

_"Just the occasional top off_."

He'd assumed she was speaking of the false relationship, of the proposal. Now…he was beginning to come to a new conclusion.

Her next words:

_"You lied to me. You lied and lied. You shouldn'ta lied to me, Sherl. I know what kinda man ya are. We could've been friends."_

The way she said them…it was…familiar. There was no anger in her words, just resignation, and a sheen in her eyes that he thought had been tears, but no tears fell. They were almost sad, but there was something else, there – was it - _glee_?

He realized now there was a _reason_ she had been Mary's maid of honor. There was a _reason_ she'd been paired with him at the wedding. After all, _she_ had been the one flirting with _him_, at first, wasn't she? Someone had placed her there – he wasn't sure _who_, yet, but he had his suspicions.

He knew Mycroft suspected something, too. He wasn't sure if he suspected Janine, yet, but he had made that comment about being more _useful_ here in England. What was it he had said?

_Here there be dragons_.

Something big was coming.

He just hoped he would be around to slay it.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was anxious. He was ready, so ready, to begin. His plan did not seem so perfect, now. He was in the car, at the airport, ready to be exiled. He had made his move – killed Magnusson – and now he was waiting for a reply. He hadn't received one yet, and time was up.

He stood, watching John and Mary exit the car on the tarmac.

Mary walked up to him first, a sad, knowing smile on her face as she squinted into the light.

His heart squeezed itself in his chest. Still not properly healed yet, he supposed. The one regret he had was not being here to protect them from further misfortune. He knew it was coming. He just didn't see a way out of it. Not without a response from the other player in all of this.

"You will take care of him, won't you?" He asked, wrapping her in an embrace. This time, it was goodbye for real. This time, he appreciated the comfort of physical touch as much as any other human.

"Don't worry," Mary said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, smiling gently. "I'll keep him in trouble."

He returned her smile, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "That's my girl." He was thankful that John had this woman in his life, for all his objections to relationships and sentiment. Perhaps not so many objections now.

His brother was standing by, watching, disapproving. Sherlock frowned.

"Since this is quite possibly the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment alone?"

Mycroft made a show of rolling his eyes, but gave them space.

John smiled at him, and Sherlock's heart pressed against his chest again, and he commited John's smile, his awkward way of moving, his shrugs, to memory.

"So," John said, rocking on his heels, hands behind his back. "Here we are again." He cleared his throat, pacing a bit now.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

John stopped, and raised his eyebrows. "What – sorry?"

Sherlock glanced at the ground before meeting John's eyes again. "That's the whole of it. If you're – looking for a baby name."

John chuckled, looking at the ground himself. "No, we've had a scan, and we're pretty sure it's a girl."

_A girl_. Sherlock had never understood girls, and had long considered them too emotional for his taste. There were, to date, only five women he could tolerate being around for long periods of time, and only two he actually preferred to spend time with. Still, he could not help smiling at the thought of John Watson raising a little girl. _He would miss that_. "Okay."

Sherlock bit his lip, and rocked on his heels himself as John stared across the airport at something in the distance. Neither one of them really knew what to say. How do you say goodbye to the person who is your best friend, your best man, and has saved your life more times than either of you could ever know?

"Yeah…yeah…I can't…I can't think of a single thing to say." John admitted after a moment.

"No, neither can I."

"The game is over," John eyed him, looking away quickly.

Sherlock could tell he wanted to be contradicted. "The game is _never_ over, John."

"But there may be some new players, now," He added, looking away himself, angry that the player who was supposed to make a move hadn't, and now he was here, saying goodbye to the person he supposed loved him most in the world, and…one of the people he loved the most in the world.

He could not change things, now. No use crying over spilled milk. He smirked at the thought, though it saddened him a bit. "The east wind takes us all, in the end."

John stared. "What's that?"

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The east wind is this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth. That was generally directed at me."

John nodded, halfway. "Oh, I see." He really didn't, but it was kind of him to pretend.

"Bit of rubbish, big brother."

John smiled again, and cleared his throat. "So – what about you then? Where are you actually going, now?"

Sherlock sighed, and this time he knew the pain in his chest was not caused by shoddy stitching. If was being honest with himself, he knew he'd healed just fine all along. The pangs with Molly, and Mary, and John, all along – they had all been _emotion_. His brother was right. He had become too _involved_ – but he didn't regret it. He was beyond that, now. "A bit of undercover work in Eastern Europe."

"For how long?"

"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong." Sherlock did not meet John's eyes as he said this. John could not know he'd be dead at the end of those six months.

"And then what?"

Sherlock blinked. "Who knows?" This was a lie, but it was what Molly would call an honest sort of lie. A lie with pure intentions. That's something she'd said, after the fall, before he left. The best sort of lie. A lie meant to protect and help those around him. She was right, again – she was always right. Third time's the charm. He wasn't going to make it, this time. He'd fight, of course, he'd fight – but his brother was never wrong.

John nodded, looking behind him, at the plane, behind him again. Anywhere but at Sherlock. That would make it too final.

Sherlock paused, biting his lip again. "John, there's – something – I should say. Something I've meant to say, always, and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

John was looking at him with such honest eyes, so full of emotion. And Sherlock found that he couldn't tell John how much he meant to him, how John was _his_ best man, because that would be too final, and there was still a chance – still a _chance_ – that the dragon would make his move and he'd be back here making witty barbs about John's inability to stay out of trouble for more than a week.

So, as he always did, Sherlock went for humor. It was a gift he could leave John with, his humor. "Sherlock is really a girl's name."

He grinned, and John grinned back at him. "It's _not_," John corrected.

Sherlock laughed. "Was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you."

"I think it could work."

Sherlock smiled again, putting all his love and gratefulness and apologies into that one last look at his best friend. He held out his hand. "To the very best of times, John."

John hesitated, and took it. He shook it firmly, and nodded, his face conveying everything he could not say.

Sherlock turned and boarded the plane.

* * *

Lestrade was at the pub, having a pint and watching the football match. He'd heard from John that Sherlock was going out of country for a few months, and he had to admit, he was saddened at the news. He'd just come back, after all, and he'd only just begun terrorizing London again.

He sighed in irritation as the screen began to go fuzzy. Jeers and complaints from the rest of the patrons filled the room. And then – and then –

His mouth dropped in disbelief. He – he _recognized_ the back of that head. The jawline, the brow, as the man in the screen turned – and then the face.

That horrible, grinning, sadistic face, saying over, and over, and over again:

_Did you miss me_?

He pulled out his phone and had sent three texts by the time he was out the door.

* * *

Molly was about to leave for the night. She just finished cleaning the lab, putting everything back in its place, the background noise of the telly keeping her company. She heard static, and turned around to give it a whack again, straightening her lab coat.

Her mouth opened in horror at the sight of the man on the screen.

_Did you miss me_?

* * *

Sherlock stared out the window, memorizing the last of the English landscape, and with it, the people he cared about most. The people who counted. The people he had done all of this for. He could make plans for Serbia later. This time, now, was for him, and his emotions, and for gaining _self control_.

He was interrupted by an attendant with a phone. "Sir, it's your brother."

He glanced at the phone, suspicious. He barely dared to hope that someone…some dragon…had made the move that would get him out of this. "Mycroft."

"Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?"

"I've only been _gone_ four minutes."

"Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson." Sherlock could hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. "As it turns out, you're needed."

"Oh, for goodness sake, make up your _mind_." His voice did not betray the relief, and the _joy_ he felt at hearing those words. The move had been made. "Who needs me this time?"

"England," Mycroft sighed.


	10. In Which There is a Frying Pan

**Hello! This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and I am really enjoying making plans for these next few action-packed chapters. :) **

**Enjoy! **

_Chapter 10, In Which There is a Frying Pan_

Before Sherlock even deplaned, Mycroft had taken the liberty of sending some of his agents to provide a watchful eye over Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. His little brother had gotten _involved_, and he didn't need _emotions_ compromising his brother's thought processes. If he knew his little goldfish were safe, he would be able to focus on the matter at hand.

He'd also made some calls to his best agents regarding the fiasco with that image being broadcast throughout London. He needed answers as to how that had happened, and the names of the people who were to be out of a job. And possibly out of the country.

It was late for that.

Moriarty already had the two people he wanted for this part of his plan. He needed one more, of course, for Phase One. The others – the real fun - they would come later. This was just the frying pan. Soon, there would be fire. A fire so intense it would _burn his heart out_.

* * *

As the broadcast continued, the echo of _did you miss me_ playing over and over again through the empty rooms, Molly wrapped her arms around herself. She was no fool. Jim had used her once, and left her when he thought she was no longer useful. He wouldn't hesitate to…use her again. And if she knew she counted, now, to Sherlock, she suspected that James Moriarty did, too. She shivered, and held herself more tightly. She knew she needed to be someplace more public…or should she lock the doors and hide away, until someone came for her? Surely, someone would come for her.

A knock at the door made her jump, and a little scream escaped her lips. It was her colleague, Dr. Patel.

Molly gasped in relief. "Thank God."

He looked at her concerned, eyeing the room, as if he fully expected all the dead to rise from the morgue, now that two men who had died on the rooftop years ago were apparently both alive and well.

"Inspector Lestrade's texted me, and I suspect you as well. We'll sit in the canteen. I have to imagine he'll be around shortly, to look at the records. What a bloody mess."

Molly nodded, and followed.

* * *

_24 Hours Earlier_

Josephine Conners was attempting to sauté vegetables for a stir-fry for dinner. Sarah Jane was in her room. Jo had music playing, and was focusing so much on singing that she burnt their dinner beyond recognition. She frowned, as she finished singing the ending chorus to _Demons_, a rather catchy tune she'd heard played on the radio a lot lately. It was sad, and a little angry, but hopeful, and it was different. Much like her attempt at cooking a stir-fry.

She had planned for this, though, and had some extra veggies on hand, just in case. Knife in hand, she began to chop them. A masculine chuckle from somewhere behind her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She knew Casey's chuckle, and she knew Ian's chuckle, and this was neither.

"Fitting choice of song, Ms. Conners."

She spun around, clutching the knife in her hand. A man stood behind her, medium height, and _bulky_. He had a pock-marked face and a crooked, leering smile, and Jo barely had time for a scream to escape her lips before he was twisting the hand with her knife in it.

Jo was stronger than he'd guessed, and the burst of adrenaline she'd gotten when he first appeared helped her to fight, but still, she was not strong enough. Her cry of terror turned into a cry of pain as she resisted the meaty hand twisting her wrist. The point of the knife came down, and her struggling caused it to carve a thin line into her own thigh. She gasped in pain and anger, but she wasn't done yet.

She dropped the knife and kneed him squarely in the groin, then grabbed the still hot frying pan from the stove, and holding it firmly in both hands, aimed for his head.

He was prepared, however, and threw up his arm to defend himself. Though the pan hit his arm heavily, searing the skin and most likely fracturing something, he gritted his teeth and swept his leg out to knock her off her feet.

To her credit, Josephine held firmly to the frying pan as she fell, and aimed another blow at his kneecap. She hit her mark, and although the rebound caused the pan to hit her own arm, burning a stripe onto her arm, she couldn't help but feel satisfied as he shouted at her, cursing in rage.

She raised her pan for another strike, but was stopped by the sight of her little sister – her baby, her life – held in a strangle hold by another meaty henchman. Her little white hands were clutching the arm wrapped around her neck, and her eyes were wide with fear and fury.

"Put the pan down." The man didn't need to make any threats. She knew what could happen to her sister if she continued to fight. Slowly, trembling, feeling the searing heat of the cut on her thigh and the burn on her arm, she set the pan on the floor next to her.

"Good girl."

A sharp blow to her head, and Josephine Conners was not going to wake up for quite a while.

* * *

_Back to the Present_

Molly waited fretfully in the canteen. Dr. Patel had left her there, waiting for Greg. He'd offered her tea, and when she'd refused, he decided he couldn't sit still and went to look up the records of one James Moriarty, alias Richard Brooks, on the hospital computer.

Mycroft's men got to her before Lestrade did. They'd already retrieved her things from her locker, and assured her that she was safe, as long as she stayed with them. She insisted that they stay and wait for Greg, because although she'd met Mycroft in the time after Sherlock's 'death' and did recognize his men, (they all had sharp business suits and a special sort of pocket handkerchief that she suspected had more uses than just wiping your nose), she'd feel safer with a friend. They had no objections, as their only instructions were to guard her, and the place was public enough.

To keep herself occupied, she went through her oversized messenger bag. Wallet, keys, phone (texts from Greg, telling her he was coming to see her, and a text from John, telling her Mycroft was sending her some protection – but strangely, nothing from Sherlock, yet), iPod, lip-gloss, tissues, hairbrush with extra hairbands around the base, a half – used pack of spearmint chewing gum. And there – at the bottom – something that had not been there this morning. She frowned, and her heart began to beat a little bit faster.

It was a CD, or a DVD. Homemade, in a cheap little plastic case. She went to touch it, to pull it out, and then, in a moment of clarity, used one of her tissues to do so instead. She felt just a little tug of pride at having remembered not to contaminate potential evidence.

She turned the black case over, and there, on the cover of the little CD case, was a picture of her and Jim. She felt the blood drain from her face, and her breath became shorter. It was their second date, and he'd watched Glee with her, and had been perfectly lovely. He'd wanted to take a picture with his phone, to 'prove to his mates' he was actually dating a 'beautiful doctor'. Toby had somehow poked his head in between theirs, and the picture of the three of them was candid and one of the few Molly truly liked of herself. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were rosy, and her smile was sweet and sure. And her hair looked nice. Jim didn't look half bad in it, either. Now, though – knowing what he _was_, knowing what he _did_, she felt bile rise in throat. Closing her eyes and fighting back panic, she looked at cover again.

Under the picture was a message.

_Hello again, love. Please give the contents of this case, and this message, to Sherlock. We'll catch up over coffee soon. I look forward to it. –xJim_

She wasn't sure how much time passed as she stared at the case in her hands, but at the motion of Dr. Patel in front of her, with a cup of tea, she startled out of her dark reverie. She quickly turned the case over, so only the black side was visible.

"Couldn't find anything amiss with the records. In fact, I couldn't find them at all. Hard copy will be in the paper files, of course, but I couldn't bring myself to check those alone. Think we'll wait for police support for that. Er," he said, warily looking at Mycroft's men behind her, "who might these be?"

"Oh," Molly breathed, thankful for the distraction, and the wakening of her senses. "They're…they're protection. From the government. They must think…well…it's all right. I trust them." She smiled weakly at the doctor. "Thank you for the tea."

"You're welcome. I fear I am too restless to sit here, though. Forgive me, Dr. Hooper."

"Not at all. I mean, it's fine. You don't have to sit here."

As Dr. Patel walked away, Molly pulled out her phone and began to text Greg, John, Mary, Sherlock, and what she hoped was still the number of one Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock walked off the plane, vacillating between joy at his stay of execution and grim determination to protect his friends from the dragon who had reared his ugly head. He strode smartly up to his brother, relieved to see that John and Mary were still staring, through the car window, in confusion at the small console in Mycroft's vehicle. John turned to grin at him as he walked up.

Sherlock returned the grin, for a brief moment. "Five minutes. Couldn't last _five minutes_ without me, could you?" He then focused on the image still broadcasting from his brother's call.

James Moriarty. Smirking, photo-shopped, his mouth moving in jerky, puppet-motions as the robotic voice repeated, again and again – "Did you miss me? Did you miss me?".

He frowned. "Mycroft. This is _impossible_. I saw him die. This could be anyone."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Keep watching, o ye of little faith."

Sherlock watched the next few moments, and sure enough, after about one minute, the image froze, and then he could see James Moriarty, in real life, from behind, turning to show off a wolfish grin, saying "Did you miss me?". The real Moriarty beamed for a half a second more, and was then replaced by the photo-shopped image on repeat.

He eyed his brother, communicating that he saw the signs of aging, and that he understood that Moriarty, somehow, had maybe – possibly – probably - performed the same miracle that he himself had.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, trying to contain a grim sort of grin. "The game, John, is most _definitely_ on. Mycroft," he hesitated a moment, refusing to meet his brother's cool gaze. "I assume-"

Again, Mycroft suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Protection, yes. I've already taken the liberty of sending men to watch over your goldfish, brother mine."

Sherlock eyed him. "Which ones?"

"Which men? Brother, I assure you-"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You know what I mean. Which…which…_goldfish_."

John and Mary looked between each other, confused.

Mycroft sighed. "Martha Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, and Dr. Hooper. I've also called for some reinforcements to meet us here at the tarmac, to take Mrs. Watson to a secure location."

Sherlock seemed to relax at this news. Mary began to protest, but John pulled her aside, and after some loud whispering (_What was the point of whispering if everyone could hear you? _Sherlock thought, irritated), he convinced her that she (and the baby) should be taken somewhere safe, just until they knew where they stood, with everything.

As John kissed his wife goodbye, everyone's cells began to buzz at once – John's, Mary's, Sherlock's (which had been returned to him as he left the plane), and even, surprisingly, Mycroft's. The four glanced at each other, expressions unreadable, before looking at the screens on their phones.

It was a text from Molly. Several texts from Molly.

A vein strained in Sherlock's neck as he opened the messages.

Jim's left me a not. – MH

Sorry, note. - MH

For Sherlock. – MH

It's a CD or DVD. - MH

I didn't touch it. – MH

I mean, I didn't touch it with my fingers. – MH

I haven't opened it yet. – MH

What do I do? – MH

Sherlock snorted, and then breathed deeply. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath. Her texts, so very Molly in their content, reassured him that Mycroft's men had secured her safety, for the time being.

He looked up at his brother. He knew Mycroft would insist on screening that CD before it was ever played.

"We need to be sure it won't unleash some sort of virus or virtual bomb. We can't afford to be incapacitated because you were too excited to get back into your _game_."

Sherlock nodded. "I know."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Very good of you to see reason, Sherly. I'll have my people-"

Sherlock snorted. "No. That would take too long. Even your best men are only two thirds as good as Sarah Jane."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Sarah Jane is a child."

Sherlock's voice dropped very low. "So was Sherrinford."

Mycroft glared dangerously. "Josephine would never allow it."

Sherlock snorted again, matching Mycroft's glare. "Don't tell me _you_ have goldfish as well."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Sherlock knew he had won. "Ridiculous. I simply prefer to avoid having emotional _children_ involved. However, you present a logical argument. Sarah Jane would expedite the process."

John was busy typing a reply for Molly to stay put, and then ushered his wife into the car with the Mycroft's men. He hesitated, and Mary smiled at him, a hand on her round belly.

"John, I'll be fine." As an afterthought, she added, "I am a pretty decent shot, after all."

John laughed. "Yeah, yeah…you are. Be safe." One last kiss, and she was gone.

The three men contacted Molly and instructed her to meet them at the Conner's flat with the CD.

The frying pan was slowly heating beneath them.


	11. In Which a Spark is Suppressed

**So...hello again! I've been away for a bit. Real life happened, and so did The Lizzie Bennett Diaries. (They're still happening actually - I'm just taking a little break from them to post this!)  
**

**Thank you to Einvine's page for introducing me to the modern Lizzie Bennett and William Darcy.  
**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy! **

_Chapter Eleven, In Which a Spark is Suppressed _

Josephine Conners was uncomfortable, and that was putting it mildly. She was propped up against a wall, and she felt…heavy. There was something tight tied against her thigh, and her upper arm throbbed slightly. Neither of these injuries could compare to the pounding in her head. She felt as though she was one of the eggs she often dropped while cooking, cracked open on the floor.

Jo tried to open her eyes, but the light made her wince. She could hear…voices, and the clacking of a keyboard as someone sat typing frantically. As she gradually opened one eye, and then the other, the room began to blur in and out of focus.

Light streamed in through a large bay window to her left. The view outside was pleasant – it was a sunny day, the sky was an intense shade of blue, and it was that changing time of year when melting snow reflected every iota of sunlight. Her eyes moved away from the window, retreating from the harsh daylight.

It seemed she was in some sort of house, in the sitting room. A leather sofa, with a worn armchair beside it, and a wooden coffee table in between came into focus first. Down the hallway, she could make out several doors, probably leading to bedrooms or baths. To her right lay a small kitchen, with wooden floors, light cabinets, and modern appliances, and –

Oh. That was odd. One wall of the dining room off the kitchen had monitors all over it. Computer monitors, and television screens, and they were all filled with different things – empty rooms, hospital entrances, a news station, what looked like a canteen somewhere, Scotland Yard, and some sort of landing strip at an airport –

And there, at a long desk in front of the viewing wall, with a desktop and two laptops sitting on it, typing furiously on several different keyboards - stopping to occasionally move a mouse to adjust a screen or minimize a window - was Sarah Jane.

"Sarah?" Jo whispered, confused. What had happ – oh. Oh. OH! In one crystal moment of clarity, shining brilliant and blinding and painful as the sunshine off of reflected snow, Josephine remembered what had happened.

She began to move her arms, only to find they'd been tied loosely together at the wrists. Fighting panic within her, she tried to move her head – but gasped in pain when she did so.

"Tsk, tsk," someone above her shook his head. "Now, now poppet. Not time to wake yet. Go back to sleep."

And something smelling strong and unpleasant was placed in front of her nose, and she was lost in darkness for the second time.

* * *

Mycroft didn't swear – swearing is the manifestation of the inability to express oneself intelligently and precisely - but Sherlock could tell he was testing the taste and feel of one in his mouth. The British Government thought better of it and pressed his lips into a fine line as his quick eyes scanned the flat of Jo and Sarah Jane Conners.

Someone had taken them, that much was clear to even Molly and John. The door to their flat was locked from the outside, but the chain inside was cut cleanly down the center. Someone had picked the lock and cut through the security chain, then relocked the door from the outside. The radio had been playing, a little too loudly, and Mycroft had promptly switched it off as soon as they entered the flat.

Two culprits had been there, judging by the size of the bloody half-footprint in the kitchen and the oily indentations on the carpet. The Holmes brothers scanned the flat, occasionally glancing at each other, communicating as silently as possible with minute hand gestures, scowls, and narrowed eyes. Occasionally, they would talk, quietly and tersely, their thought processes a mystery to the two men and one woman who were standing silently, observing, just inside the entrance to the flat.

"One had a scar from a old knife wound-"

"Glass, more likely-"

"I'd say six feet, two inches, and five feet, ten inches-"

"One smokes – a cheap American brand-"

"Jo landed two blows with the frying pan, gave him a bad limp-"

"Left some of his skin behind-"

"Some of her own, as well-"

"Sarah is physically unharmed, but Jo fought back-"

"He didn't cut her on purpose; she did that herself-"

"Not deep, but substantial enough to leave the blood he stepped in-"

"Connected." Sherlock stated, nudging Sarah Jane's phone from under the table with the toe of his shoe.

"Mmm." Mycroft agreed, frowning. He stepped out of the room, giving quiet, clipped orders to the agent standing outside the door. The agent entered the flat across the hall, and returned seconds later with the news that the man across the hall – one of Mycroft's placed there for surveillance of the promising student recruit - was dead – shot through the head.

Molly looked to John and Greg nervously, then at the brothers, who continued stalking through the apartment.

Greg rubbed his face, and growled in frustration. "Holmes – I need to call my team in, for the kidnapping at least. One of your men is dead, and these girls – I know these girls. You can use us. I can't-"

"Detective Inspector – you will not call anyone. You will not call your team, you will not call your estranged wife – who has been out for some time today and is in no danger from our case here - you will not call _anyone_. You will leave this apartment, and forget what you saw here today. One of my men will escort you back to the hospital, where you will continue your investigation into Moriarty's return through traditional channels. Is that clear?" Mycroft's cutting voice left no room for argument, but Greg Lestrade argued anyways.

"But-"

"I will handle the extraction of the Conners sisters. In fact," he said, glancing down at the phone on the floor, "Sarah Jane has already secured their rescue. You are not needed."

Greg's face contorted in anger. He opened his mouth to reply -

"You _are_ needed at the hospital, though," Molly said quietly, surprising the men in the room. "The news – people will be out of their minds with worry. They need you there." She gave Greg a weak smile.

Greg looked at her darkly for a moment, but his gaze relaxed and he returned Molly's gentle, nervous smile with a brusque nod. "Tell me when they're safe. And let me know – let me know if and _when_ you need anything. We've got to work together, this time. No need to fake any deaths." He glared at the unresponsive Holmes brothers, and turned to go.

"Wait…shouldn't I…I mean – should I go with you? I can help you with the records-"

"Dr. Patel and Mike Stamford are more than capable of helping with the records, Molly. You didn't perform Moriarty's autopsy." Sherlock's voice cut through her stammering. He glanced sharply at the petite woman across the room, then refocused his gaze on the phone at his feet. "Besides. You are safer with us, at the moment. Until we know what is on that disk…" _Until Mycroft's men finish sweeping your flat, and Baker Street…until we know Moriarty's game…_

He didn't need to explain further. She swallowed noisily and nodded, then stopped when she realized no one but John was looking at her. She smiled sheepishly at him, and raised her shoulders in a sort of half-shrug. He offered her a tense smile in return, and then eyed Sherlock across the room. Sherlock was studiously ignoring everyone, bending down, and with careful fingers, prodding Sarah Jane's phone on the floor.

* * *

It had been odd, when Molly walked through the front entrance to the apartment complex. She had given Sherlock the disk and case immediately. When he saw the front cover, the note, his face was impassive. Then, in a strange and unnecessary gesture, he'd gently, firmly cupped Molly's steady hands in his own lean, gloved ones. He stared at the case, and his thumbs made small strokes on Molly's wrists.

He didn't pull her closer, or attempt to comfort her in any other way. He had simply stood still as a statue for a full minute, holding her hands in his own and studying her with all of the intensity his blue-grey eyes allowed. She had almost felt like he was…memorizing her. It was discomfiting, although she felt a blush creep up her neck and colour her cheeks as she relaxed into the feel of his slender, leather-clad fingers on her skin.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, he'd tucked the offending case into a pocket in his Belstaff, ignoring his brother's demands to see it, and had smirked at her, once, cleared his throat, and headed for the lift. She'd looked away from everyone for a moment, thinking, and then looked back at John and Greg. Greg gave her an eye roll and a shoulder shrug, and John gripped her shoulder reassuringly, avoiding her gaze. "You'll be fine, Molly."

"I know," she'd replied, trying hard to believe her own words.

* * *

Sherlock regretted touching her. It was a moment of weakness, on his part. It must have been the chemical imbalance of adrenaline and fear and relief mixed in his body, because he wanted desperately to pull her close in an embrace and…and do what? He wasn't sure. But he felt something old and deep spin inside him, and although he tried desperately to repress it, he couldn't stop his hands from touching her – making sure that she was indeed alive, and present, and real, and ready to help him as always. He owed Molly Hooper – he owed her his life, several times over. It was almost as bad with her as it was with John.

So, admitting that he felt responsible for Molly Hooper, and that he _owed_ her, he made a silent vow to himself that he would protect her, too.

Logic convinced him he wasn't being overly sentimental - he could return the favor of life-saving that she had bestowed on him on more than one occasion. _Besides – on a park bench so many months ago, he did admit that he loved her. That he loved all of them._

There was no room for love, now. It needed to be tucked away and locked in the recesses of his mind palace. Perhaps, when this was all over, he could enter that room again – continue his observations and experiments. For now, he needed his thoughts unhindered by the chemical imbalance caused by _love_. Otherwise, he may not have anyone _left_ to love.

With that out of the way, he studied Sarah Jane's phone on the floor, deciphering the distress call that Sarah Jane had started when she knew that she and Josephine were going to be taken.

* * *

Sarah Jane was furiously monitoring the screens in front of her. She had not slept for over twenty-four hours, and her eyes were rimmed red and felt raw with dried tears. She felt dizzy and sick from staring at the computer screens before her for so long. She'd only been allowed a few five-minute bathroom breaks, and had been give a single, small bottle of water to drink. Still, there was a part of her mind that felt the tiniest bit of comfort from the familiarity of the keyboard beneath her fingers.

She was seven, and she was smart. She knew the woman in the house with them was connected to something dangerous. The woman with pretty light brown hair and dark eyes and a pleasant, lilting accent, who apologized for her rough treatment but insisted that it was necessary – there was something wrong with her. Sarah had never met an insane person, but she suspected Ms. Brooks might be one. She was sweet and gentle in explaining exactly how Sarah Jane needed to hack into all of the broadcasting systems in London, and sweet and gentle as she gave Sarah Jane the video she needed to upload, and sweet and gentle as she explained exactly how she would have to torture her sister in front of her if she failed to supply adequate results in the time given her.

So Sarah Jane worked, broadcasting the image of James Moriarty to everyone in London when she was ordered to. After the broadcasting virus was released, she was told to monitor certain areas of London. She complied.

She blinked rapidly, trying both to moisten her dry eyes and to keep from falling asleep.

"Sarah, love – Jim's told me to tell ya you're doing a marvelous job. He's quite pleased with your work, yeah?"

Sarah didn't bother to face the woman standing behind her. She tensed her little shoulders as a thin fingernail traced its way across her back. Her voice was so light and warm – it was _frightening_. "Soon…very soon, love – Phase One will be complete. And then the real fun begins! And it'll be such fun, for us. Oh – not for you, dear. You'll be rescued by then, o'course. Don't worry, Sarah Jane. You and your _darlin'_ sister will be safe and sound in a matter of hours. You really have done a _marvelous_ job, dear. We just need one last thing-"

And then Janine 'Brooks' spun Sarah Jane's chair so that she was facing the woman. Janine had a needle in her hand, and she grabbed Sarah's hand so quickly Sarah didn't have time to react. Janine stabbed the pad of one of Sarah's fingers with the needle, and held a small rectangular piece of glass to her blood, drawing it onto the slide.

"Ah!" Sarah cried out, more of surprise than of pain.

"Now, sweetheart," Janine's voice was low and calming. "Here's some gauze – hold it to your finger like a good girl – and I'll get you a bandage and some ice for it, as well. It's a pity we've had to meet like this. You're such a doll. If I was ever to have a little girl, I'd hope she'd look like you." She winked, friendly, at Sarah.

Sarah pulled her hand close to herself, pressing the gauze hard into the little wound, and glared at the woman walking away from her.

It was then that the sound of breaking glass and gunfire made her hit the floor and crouch in a ball under the desk, clever eyes looking for a way to save herself and her sister in the chaos.

* * *

"You're wasting your time, brother mine." Mycroft said, sneering distastefully at the vegetable stir-fry Molly was attempting to clean up throughout the kitchen after getting the okay from Sherlock and Mycroft. John sighed, and began to help her.

Sherlock broke his attention from Sarah Jane's phone. "Who's receiving her distress call, then? How are you going to 'extract' them?" He already had his suspicions, but he needed confirmation from his brother.

"Her brother."

When Mycroft didn't elaborate, John looked up from the burnt onion bits he was scraping from the side of a cabinet. "He got her message, or he's going to rescue them?" he prompted.

Mycroft just rolled his eyes and stood primly by a window, thinking.

Sherlock took it upon himself to explain, knowing John and Molly would keep thinking too loudly about the whole thing until he illuminated them. "Ian Conners, and presumably his partner, will 'rescue' them. Her brother received her distress call almost -twenty-four hours ago – judging by when they were taken. The call was activated as she was apprehended, at which time she dropped it and it was kicked under the table…"

His voice trailed off as he looked up at his brother suspiciously. "Why did he take them?"

Mycroft did not acknowledge Sherlock's reply. Molly and John had finished cleaning the rotting food from the kitchen, and were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting to hear the answer.

"So, its…J-Moriarty took them?" Molly clarified.

"Yes." Sherlock stood, placing the phone on the table, then sitting at a chair, joining the tips of his fingers in thought. "As I said before, _connected_. I have no doubt 'Jim' was behind this. Although Sarah is gifted, why would he take her? He's more than capable of pulling off the 'Did you miss me' stunt himself. No…and if he's trying to _affect_ me, he knows there are…stronger pressure points than they. In fact, I find myself emotionally unaffected by their absence at all."

He looked up at the sharp intake of breath from both Molly and John. He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't very well do anyone any good if I was _crying _over it, now would I? And your own eyes are remarkably dry. Besides, the probability that they are both still alive is very high. The question remains – why take them? And especially, why take _both_ of them? We've eliminated the idea that they were taken to affect me, and that Jim needed her for the broadcast high-jacking ordeal, though he could have had her help with that. _Unwilling _help," he clarified at John's glare. "I suppose I understand taking Sarah for her mathematical and technological abilities, but why take Josephine?"

Leaping up and pacing, Sherlock continued, barely pausing to take a breath. "She'd have been a bother to carry and has no skills that Moriarty would ever find a use for. He didn't want to kill her - she could be used as leverage to get Sarah to work for him, but he could accomplish that just as easily were he to simply knock Jo over the head and leave her here. So why take Josephine Conners? Why take her?"

He turned to his brother, who was still staring out the window. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Impossible…"

John and Molly looked sharply at each other. Mycroft Holmes stating that something was impossible could not be a good sign.

"What?" Sherlock snapped impatiently. "What's impossible?"

"How could he have known?" Mycroft muttered to himself.

"Speak up, _brother_. What is impossible?"

Mycroft took out his phone and began dialing. He turned towards the others, face unreadable. Everyone heard the phone ring – once, twice, three times – before Mycroft smashed the "End Call" button in frustration. He immediately began to text, and after sending it, glared at the screen.

One minute passed by. No reply.

Mycroft breathed deeply through his nose. He began another call, and gave short orders to secure an address at all costs.

"Mikey," Sherlock warned, testing his brother. He spoke slowly and annunciated every letter of every word. "I can't slay the dragon if I don't have all of the weapons at my disposal."

After hanging up, Mycroft pressed two fingers into the kitchen table. He composed himself quickly, and then glared at his brother. "There is a…safe."

Sherlock leveled his gaze on his brother, holding them there. Molly and John stared at the two brothers, listening intently.

"A safe that contains a very important floppy disk. Yes," he glared at John, who was about to snort at the importance of a _floppy disk_, "a very _important_ _floppy disk_. It was created a little over twenty years ago, and was sealed in a safe that has not been opened since the deaths of Robert and Evelyn Conners. It was created by Robert Conners, a top intelligence officer at the time of his death. It contains…" he stopped. "It's not for me to disclose what it contains. Suffice it to say that it is extremely important to our nation's security. The safe is…unique. It has a lock coded to open by a DNA match." He stared pointedly at John and Molly.

Realization spread across their faces simultaneously. "He kidnapped Jo and Sarah Jane because of their DNA? He wants to open the safe." Molly asked, voice low.

"That's why he took Jo, too." John stated grimly.

"Yes…convenient…he'll have needed blood, urine, hair, saliva samples…easier to just take them all at once than to sneak around and risk being caught by Agent Conners or Agent Long." Sherlock stared at nothing, thinking.

"And now their dear brother is on his way to rescue them, if he hasn't already, and he'll give James Moriarty the last piece of the DNA puzzle to unlock the safe. He's walked into a trap, and neither he nor Casey are answering any form of communication. I've sent my men to secure the safe, but it was always hidden in plain sight, because…it was quite impossible to move, and no one was supposed to know about it. No one but me." Mycroft admitted stiffly.

"What is on the disk?" Sherlock asked, feigning disinterest.

Mycroft glared at him. "It's of no importance to you."

Sherlock moved to stand facing his brother, noses mere inches apart. "Moriarty is back, and he is threatening the people I have vowed to protect. He's also threatening all of England, in case you've missed that detail. If the contents of that disk are important to him, they are important to me _too_." He emphasized every word slowly, dangerously.

Mycroft eyed his brother calmly. "I don't know."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't play games-"

"I. Don't. Know." It was the closest Mycroft's voice had ever sounded to a growl.

"You're full of sh-"

"I hate repeating myself, brother." Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line. "Although you may believe me to be omniscient, there are certain pieces of information that even _I_ am not privy to. Primarily because…no one else knows, either."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You're telling me that _no one _knows what's on that disk?"

Mycroft frowned. "No one is supposed to, except for Robert Conners, and he died with that information still a secret. He was one of the top intelligence officers of his time – retired to our technology department. He was, by all accounts, a real-life 'Q'. He went to great lengths to protect that disk – obviously - even designed one of the first locks that require particular strands of DNA to open it. We're assuming that it is of national importance."

Molly was biting her lips in an effort not to speak. Sherlock glanced at her, and John, and then returned to glaring at his brother.

"What about-" Molly blushed as six eyes turned to stare at her, full force. "Sorry…what about the disk Jim gave me? We still need to look at it…don't we?"

"Yes…two pieces…two large pieces…two disks..." Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips and began thinking.

Mycroft did the same, although without moving his fingers or lips. John and Molly eyed each other silently across the table, and waited in silence for the other men to figure things out.

Ten minutes in to this, Mycroft's phone rang.

It was Ian Conners.

* * *

Josephine Conners met consciousness feeling a bit better. Her head was clearer – less fuzzy, though it still throbbed with pain. Her arm no longer burned, though the skin felt sore and tight, and the wrapping on her thigh was no longer painfully oppressive. She was lying on something soft and comfortable. She hadn't opened her eyes yet, but she could hear snatches of people talking around her.

"No…stitches - injection to fight infection – slightly dehydrated but stable – concussion made worse by – chloroform…" alternating male and female voices proclaimed.

"Hmmmmngh," she moaned. Painfully, slowly, she tried to open her eyes. She was met with the furrowed brow of Dr. John Watson.

Unfortunately, it took her a moment to recognize him.

Her fist connected weakly with his face.

"Oi!" He exclaimed, rubbing the side of his face good-naturedly, in surprise.

Sarah was at her side in an instant. "Oh, Jo!" She threw her arms around her sister awkwardly, avoiding her head but brushing painfully against the burn on her arm.

"Ah!" Jo cried, wincing.

"Sorry, sorry!" Sarah cried, tears pooling in her eyes. She brushed them away quickly with the back of her hand.

"Sorry," Jo replied, eyes narrowed at the light in the room. "Um…Doctor…John?"

"Yeah, all right?" He stared down at her.

"Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. You couldn't crush an ant with that blow."

"Ms. Conners, the program you're running is nearly done." A faintly familiar voice drawled from another room. Jo frowned, then stopped. She could practically feel the puckered lines in her forehead when she frowned, and it was painful.

Sarah squeezed her hand reassuringly and dashed out of the room, promising to be back very soon. "She's awake!" She cried to the others in the room, out of sight.

Jo took a moment to blink and focus on the room around her. Dr. Watson and Dr. Hooper were both watching her carefully. She closed her eyes to the light that was bothering her.

"No, no – none of that." John Watson jumped up, and lightly tapped her cheek. "You've got to stay awake, Jo. We'll transfer you to hospital as soon as Sarah's done – Mycroft's already got an ambulance waiting, yeah? You need an MRI to check on that bump on your head. Bit of bad business, there."

"You'll be fine, Jo," Molly added, smiling gently down at her, eyes filled with sympathy. She dimmed turned off the overhead light and turned on a lamp instead. The curtains were drawn, and the effect of the lamp was much more gentle than the ceiling light.

"Jujubee," a playful voice sounded at the doorway. Ian and Casey smiled at her, but their faces were tense. They both crossed the room. Ian took a seat next to her on the bed, and Casey stood next to her, gently brushing his fingers against her good arm. Jo noticed Ian had bandage wrapped around the palm of his left hand. It was stained with blood.

"What happened?"

Ian looked away, studying the blanket draped over Jo's legs. He squeezed her hand lightly. "I'm sorry, Jujubee. He never should have taken either of you." His voice was gruff.

"Who? Who took us?"

"James Moriarty," Casey answered. His voice was steady, but low. "The ba-"

"Casey!" Jo cut him off, elbowing him feebly. "Don't start. Isn't he dead? Are we - are we back in our _flat_?"

"Calm down, Jo. We…we're not sure how he's alive. Not even the great Mr. Holmes knows how that happened. He was supposed to be dead. He took you to…well, he - for a few reasons. While you were…out – well, he…" Ian fumbled over words for the first time in many years.

"He made me broadcast a stupid video of him all over London, and took a sample of my blood. Apparently he saved my water bottle and…some other fluids as well." Sarah Jane cut in, returning from the other room, crossing the room to lightly hold Jo's arm. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Except…well…it wasn't _him_ – I never saw him. I heard him, but…there was a woman…"

"Janine Brooks. Turns out I'm not the only one who's a cold, lying, manipulative bas-" Sherlock smirked cheekily from the doorway.

"Again, with the swearing!" Jo interrupted. "Please! My ears are singing."

Everyone in the room stared at her for a moment. "Er …ringing? Right? Is that right?" Jo looked at the doctors across the room.

"Sarah, are you done yet?" Molly asked, nervously moving to check Jo's pulse. Ian moved smoothly out of the way so she could take it. "Jo needs a proper hospital. The concussion, combined with being in a chemically induced sleep for so long, is not doing her brain any good."

Jo blinked, confused. "I need an explication. Explant…explanation?"

Several mouths opened at once, and the group in the room looked around. Casey was the one who decided to speak.

"Moriarty and that…b-rainy woman," he continued, after receiving a glare from Jo, "sent some ridiculous low-lives to kidnap you. Sarah Jane activated the distress call on her phone – yes…she has one…and so do you, now. Suppose we should teach you how to activate it. But you were taken to a house in Manchester, really pretty, by the way, pity we had to tear it apart – and Sarah Jane was brilliant as always and broadcast that bloody video. Sorry. Anyways, she did that, and then they had her monitoring some politicians and this lot-" he gestured to Sherlock, John, and Molly, "and they took blood from your cut there," he nodded to her thigh, "and from Sarah's finger."

"Blood?"

"Yeah…and then, when Ian and I had figured out where you were, someone jumped Ian and sliced his hand open as well, and stuck his fingers in Ian's mouth-"

"_Disgusting _– but I bit him good-" Ian cut in.

Casey rolled his eyes "-and then he ran off with the knife."

Jo remembered in time not to frown. Evidently facial expressions were made painful after a concussion. "So…you just came in and grabbed us? And they took our _blood_?"

Casey nodded. "Yeah."

Ian frowned darkly, looking away from his sister. He crossed his arms. "It's what they wanted. They didn't really want you two at all…they used you to bring me out. They knew I'd save you, and they needed my blood as well. They're going to use it to open Da's safe."

"Dad has a safe?"

"Had. It's empty now." Sherlock's voice was curt and almost accusing. His expression betrayed his frustration that Moriarty had gained on him.

Ian and Casey explained that it may or may not have contained something important to national security.

"We don't know what was on it?" Jo asked, confused.

"No. And until Jim or Janine choose to unleash it, we may not know. I'm looking in to it now, but it will be…difficult." Mycroft had left as soon as he'd heard from Ian and Casey. He had business to attend to.

Jo shivered suddenly.

Suddenly, a chilling laughter filled the apartment, along with a loud fumbling noise, like someone moving cloth in front of a microphone. "Hey, Sher-…"

Everyone but Sherlock jumped, but it was Sarah who first realized that her program had finished scanning the DVD and it had started playing automatically. She leapt up and out of the room, and paused it.

John, Molly, and Sherlock exchanged glances. It was time to receive whatever clue Jim Moriarty had left for them.

* * *

Everyone was in the room, crowded around Sarah's computer – even Jo. She'd insisted on it. A madman had kidnapped herself and her sister, and she wasn't about to let it go lightly.

A close-up of Jim Moriarty's face was frozen on the screen where Sarah Jane had paused the video. His expression would have been comical, had the circumstances been different.

Sarah looked to Sherlock, who nodded tersely.

Sarah Jane unpaused the video.

"-lock!" Jim smiled crookedly at the camera. He shook his head slightly, and began to sing in a mocking voice. "You were leeeeaaaaavin', on a jet plaaaane – neveeeer to return again."

At this, Molly looked sharply at Sherlock. The look was not lost on him, but he did not acknowledge it.

In the video, Jim laughed slightly, a huff of air into the camera. "But now you're back. You're back!" He smiled widely at the camera. "I've been busy in your short absence, Sherlock. I've taken the liberty of taking Josephine and Sarah Jane Conners, though I believe they'll be back with you soon, if they're not already. You probably wanted sweet Sarah Jane to test this little note I left you."

He tsked, disappointment dramatized on his face. "_Snap out of it Sherlock_!" He yelled, angry, then rearranged his features into something calmer again. "I wouldn't booby-trap our first little chat in _years_! I need your head clear for this one, Sherlock. You've muddied it up the past two years by getting – what's that your brother says? - involved. With _people_. You're turning into an angel, Sherlock. A boring, boring, angel. _Best man?_ Boring. And _dancing_? Really, Sherl." He shook his head again.

"And I was _so_ impressed with the way you faked your death" – he began a slow clap, off-camera, but only his face was still visible " – but since then you've been slipping! So I've taken the liberty of taking the Conner girls off of your mind. Did you like how I killed their parents? Some of my earliest work. Pure chance that it connected to you. How lucky! Sometimes the stars just align, just right!"

At that, Jo made a strange gurgling noise from somewhere deep in her throat, and Casey caught her and wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. Her face went a sickly shade of pale, and she went cold all over. Sarah sat down, stunned, and as there was no chair for her to fall into, she landed on the floor with a muted _thunk_. Ian sat next to her, and she clung to him, wide-eyed.

A part of Sherlock's brain briefly catalogued the value of physical contact as a means of comfort, but he blinked and sharply reminded himself he was no longer interested in lessons in love or sentiment.

Moriarty continued, his face growing dark and dangerous on the screen. "And sometimes…they don't. I'm a little angry with you, Sherlock." He paused, and smirked. "Well, more than a little. Remember my promise, Sherlock? Well, that's where I'm going to start. The heart of it all." He grinned once more, devious and wicked, and a voice off screen in the video gave the viewers in the room chills.

"Well done, love. Sherl will love that." The camera moved, a blur of fabric and light and motion until it focused shakily on the person holding it.

Janine.

She smiled prettily at the camera. "Won't you, Sherl?" She winked, and the screen went dark.

**Ooooh, what could the dastardly duo be planning?! **

**I love reviews, comments, and constructive criticism. Please and thank you!**


	12. In Which Love Becomes a Game

**Hello! **

**A new chapter, because of a day off. :) **

**Jim and Janine aren't really blowing people up this chapter, or the next, it's more psychological warfare with Sherlock. The action will come later, though. Muahahahaha.**

**Thank you to the followers and favorite-ers and especially thanks to Einvine and miischall for reviewing and keeping me motivated! You're wonderful! **

**I do not own Sherlock or the quotes mentioned in this chapter. **

_Chapter Twelve, In Which Love Becomes a Game_

Over a week had passed, with no new messages, clues, or city-wide broadcasts from James Moriarty or Janine Brooks. There were crimes, of course – crimes that may or may not have been linked to the current dynamic criminal duo – but nothing that gave another hint as to what they were planning or what they wanted. Everyone was on edge.

Greg Lestrade was having trouble convincing the press that yes, the broadcast was an act of James Moriarty, no, it was not a government conspiracy, no, Sherlock Holmes was in no way involved in the faking of _his _death, and yes, they were doing everything in their power to find and apprehend the criminal. Reporters everywhere were having a field day. Accusations against Sherlock, against John, against Lestrade, even against Molly Hooper, one-time girlfriend to criminal mastermind James Moriarty, were as vicious and varied as an old maid's gossip over tea. Sherlock could delete such ridiculous allegations with ease, but his friends were finding it difficult to do the same.

Mycroft had sent their parents out of country on an extended holiday, and Mary and the still-in-the-womb baby were back in the city. Mary, John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg now had round-the-clock shadows provided by both Sherlock's homeless network and Mycroft's agents. Ian and Casey never left Jo and Sarah Jane alone – one of them always remained behind to guard the girls.

Sherlock and Mycroft were both carefully considering all possibilities and all avenues of suspicion. Janine's background was being scrutinized by Mycroft's men, and Sherlock was looking into her past as well as Jim's. Sarah Jane was carefully dissecting the footage from the DVD Jim had sent Sherlock through Molly, looking for any clues as to how, where, and when it was filmed. Everyone else had attempted to return to life as normal – as normal as possible, under the circumstances.

Sherlock was convinced there was a clue in the DVD – several clues – but no matter how many times he re-watched it, he could not make them concrete in his mind. They swirled in his mind like a poisonous mist, a memory deleted, but they would not take shape. Hopefully Sarah could find something in the frames she meticulously picked apart.

Of course she could.

* * *

"He's in a wheelchair." Sarah stated, bringing up the frames she'd carefully isolated from when Janine had turned the camera to film herself in the video. They were blurry, but she had done an admirable job clearing them up.

Several frames showed different close-ups – one of Jim's face, one of his right arm, his suit jacket barely concealing the pale form of a hand and wrist emaciated and weak with disuse. It sat limp on an armrest that looked an awful lot like the armrests on hospital wheelchairs. One showed the blurry shape of metallic spokes and the familiar shape of the footrest of a wheelchair.

Sherlock frowned. While useful, this was not the clue he'd expected.

"A wheelchair?" John shook his head. "So he's a cripple now, then? Does he _need_ it, or is it just a trick?"

"Not a trick." Sherlock dismissed the idea immediately, then explained. "Sarah Jane, bring up the moment before Janine turns the camera on herself."

Sarah complied, bringing up Jim's face.

"Now, play it frame by frame, slowly."

As the frames passed by, even John and Jo could see the faint frown line and narrowing of his eyes as Janine turned the camera away from himself.

"He hadn't intended, originally, for Janine to film his whole body. Why he chose not to edit it out is a glimpse into his psyche, and perhaps into his plan. Now, in the video Sarah broadcast, he was standing and turned to face the camera…" Sherlock went to verbally analyze possible scenarios, which involved Jim injuring himself in his fake suicide, and spending two years undergoing intensive physical therapy to be able to stand and turn in the video. He was obviously trying to hide his ailment from the general public to appear more powerful and fear-inspiring, Sherlock deduced, but had decided to allow Sherlock and company to view his handicap. He couldn't help but gloat over the fact that he had escaped _his_ fake death physically unscathed.

"So, is that part of his motivation for revenge?" Jo asked, massaging her forehead tenderly. She'd been released from the hospital, but still suffered from twinges of pain occasionally. She'd still had enough mental acuity to remember Sherlock owed Sarah Jane an apology for ruining her present to him, but hadn't made any headway in garnering said apology. Still, national security was more important than an apology, and so she didn't fight much when Sarah had said she wanted to help him by analyzing the video.

"Mmm." Sherlock grunted, steepling his fingers and thinking deeply.

Jo made a face at him. "He's such a nutjob. So's that Janine girl. I mean, who sings to their arch-enemy?"

"_You_ sing to people, Jo." Sarah pointed out.

"Yeah, but I sing friendly songs to people I _like_. I wouldn't sing to someone I hate, especially if I was threatening them. It's weird. Especially 'Leavin' on a Jet Plane'. That's a nice song…and the way he said that line from 'I Will Survive'. Weird. And the way he said 'the stars align'. I get the feeling he always talks sing-songy like that, but including all of those references to-"

Sherlock sat bolt upright, focusing his intense eyes on Josephine. "Those were all references to songs?"

Jo raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Well…yeah. I thought so. Maybe I'm reading too much into it…" she trailed off, looking at Sherlock.

He pulled out his phone. "What songs, specifically, did he reference?"

Jo frowned. "Just three. There's 'Leaving on Jet Plane', which is a John Denver song but was also recorded by Peter, Paul, and Mary. There was that line he chanted – 'and now you're back' – it's the same way the singer sings it in 'I Will Survive'. And finally, the way he said 'the stars align' – drawing out the 'align'" – Jo demonstrated, mimicking Jim's tone and annunciation – "sounds an awful lot like Lindsey Stirling's 'Stars Align' video on youtube. Why? Is that important?"

Sherlock took Sarah's laptop and began googling everything he could find on those three songs. There had to be some sort of a connection, somehow. It concerned him that Jim would use song lyrics as _clues_. It didn't make sense. Jim liked matching wits with Sherlock, and testing Sherlock's knowledge of relatively modern music (something he never paid attention to) did not fit that pattern. If Jo – who had an addiction to all things musical – hadn't witnessed the video, who knows how long it would have taken him to decipher this clue?

He frowned as he continued searching the Internet for information. He worked alone. Jim knew that. Janine, too. Why would they give him a clue they knew he'd need to use someone else to interpret? A nagging feeling pierced his thoughts – _I'll burn the heart out of you_ – and he shrugged it off. Perhaps he'd just need to pay more attention to popular culture for this particular case. Maybe Jim and Janine were playing to his weaknesses to give him even more of a challenge than the last time.

That must be it – they were trying to throw him off by using things he hated and regularly dismissed as beneath him as clues. He smirked as he realized their plan. Well, he'd just have to brush up on popular culture. He could handle that.

Ah, there. The connection. He frowned. All three musical groups had visited London at some point – the dates were far off, as were the hotels they stayed at and the music they played - but at least one member of their group always visited St. Bride's. Peter, Paul, and Mary had visited to bestow free copies of a children's book about a dragon to the library. Gloria had apparently visited often to meet with a distantly related nephew. Lindsey Sterling had visited simply to read.

It was a tenuous lead and could very well turn out to be a red herring, but as such it was the only lead they had. Sherlock leapt up, wrapping his scarf around his neck and depositing the computer back onto Sarah's lap. He pulled his coat on, and Casey, the current person appointed to watch over Sarah and Jo, stood up as well.

"Was it important, then? The music in the video?" He asked.

Sherlock gave a cursory glance towards Jo. "Possibly."

John had to hurry to follow him out the door. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock gave him a quick grin, showing off his teeth. "To the library."

* * *

It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to find the clue in the library. It was blatantly obvious. Well, obvious to him.

It was another phone, presumably for Jim and/or Janine to contact him. It looked suspiciously like the Woman's phone, but he knew that was impossible. It was simply a replica. It was in the Lost and Found box near the front desk of St. Bride's library, half-buried beneath a single red child's glove and a hideous lumpy brown hat. He quickly fished it out, and a text appeared a moment later from a restricted number.

**Well that took you long enough. –JM**

**910.4 AUR F STE –JM**

"What does that mean?" John asked, referring to the second message.

"A set of call numbers. It appears we'll acquire some light reading while we're here." Sherlock replied.

"Ah." John's brow pursed in concentration. "This isn't like last time, is it then?" The game was different.

"No."

* * *

They didn't need to check anything out of the library. They'd found the books – on the pirate Blackbeard and _Treasure Island_ by Robert Louis Stevenson – and inside the front cover of each one was a clue.

Well, one was a clue. The other was a quote. Sherlock scowled.

The clue was a reference to his parent's cottage, in the same cyphers that Jim had used on his blog once upon a time. He deciphered that one quickly enough, and knew he'd have to go to his childhood home next.

The quote was sentimental and stupid.

"_The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart." –Anon._

He kept the paper for analysis, and mentally discarded the words as rubbish.

* * *

It was not like last time. There were no innocent civilians kidnapped and forced into bomb vests, there were no unsolved mysteries, there were no obvious dangers or time constraints given. But still, time ticked down maddeningly for Sherlock. He took on interesting side cases as he waited to go to the country to search for the next clue, leading to who knows where. It was infuriating, not knowing where this was all leading. The clues, the quotes, did not serve to pique his interest, but to bore him. Jim was not amused, this time, and was not playing the same sort of game. This time was about acute revenge and pressure points and blinding, burning pain. And right now, the blinding, burning pain was one of a stagnant mind and an active heart.

The second clue was buried with Redbeard. A second quote -_ "You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel." – Tabitha Suzuma_ – was posted on a stick above the freshly overturned dirt of Redbeard's grave on his parent's property.

It was disgusting and heart wrenching to have to dig up the bones of the dog who was buried over twenty years ago. Sherlock spent copious amounts of energy maintaining a stony façade as the bones were recovered and a new, carefully plastic-wrapped disc was found in the ribcage of the dog he used to love. The bones were re-buried, and he shook John's firm grip on his shoulder off with an impatient shrug.

They needed to pay another visit to Sarah.

* * *

As Sarah was scanning the DVD for possible threats, Sherlock received several texts on the phone he'd found at the library.

_Ooh, saw your face, Sherl. – xJB_

_Poor boy. You really shouldn't have lied to me. – xJB_

_Who does your heart really belong to, Sherl? – xJB_

_A piece of it with pirates, a piece of it with a dog in the ground. –xJB_

_But who holds what's left of it? –xJB_

_I'm going to find out. I know what kind of a man you are. –xJB_

He breathed evenly through his nostrils, staring at the screen as more texts came in.

**Sorry 'bout that, Sherlock. –JM**

**She's still a little mad about the whole fake proposal. –JM**

**But don't worry, I'm holding her back. –JM**

**For now. –JM**

**You're really having a bad time, aren't you? –JM**

**But unsolved mysteries and bombs are soooooo last year. – JM**

**Well, I'm getting bored myself. I'll make it more interesting for you, then. -JM**

**I'll make a deal. If you find out what matters most to me, you win. I'll give you pieces of my new network and let you unwind the web for funsies! -JM**

** If we find out what matters most to you, we win. –JM**

**Just to make this clear, Sherlock – you don't want Janine to win. –JM**

_I'm a sore loser, Sherlock – but an even worse winner. –xJB_


	13. In Which Friends are Unlucky in Love

**Hello! So...sorry if that last chapter stretched reality a bit, and called for a little extra suspension of disbelief. This one is a bit more in-line with canon...although I feel like I can have some creative license, considering the crazy things that have happened in the show. :) This chapter again, is a little short - but the end of this chapter hints at the crazy awesome action that will occur in the next few chapters...**

_Chapter Thirteen, In Which Several Friends are Unlucky in Love_

Sherlock shouldn't have replied to their texts. It was probably a foolish mistake on his part, but he couldn't resist.

Ha! You're a psychopath. Nothing matters to you. – SH

**Wrong! – JM**

That was all the text had said…and then there was a sound, far off, that sounded like a muffled 'pop!', followed shortly by sirens in the distance. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he read Jim's next texts.

**By the way…for every wrong guess, I blow something up. -JM**

**I told you I was getting bored. Heehee. –JM**

**Oh, and you have two weeks, starting today. If you don't guess correctly by then... –JM**

**BAM! – JM**

**Goes everything that matters to you…not just what matters ****_most_****. -JM**

Sherlock clenched his jaw angrily.

"Uh…Sherlock…that…outside." He nodded out the window. "It wouldn't have anything to do with…Jim, now would it?" John asked, glaring.

"Of course it does, John. Ms. Conners – what's on the disk?"

* * *

The DVD Sarah cleared for viewing was of Greg Lestrade, on his wedding day. It had led to some uncomfortable conversations with the man, with his estranged wife, and in the end, had led them to the location of his wife's first dalliance with another man. It had been extremely painful for Lestrade, and Sherlock could practically taste his agony. It was so unsettling to Sherlock that he actually remembered to call the man _Greg_. Not good.

There were two clues in the hotel the DVD led them to. One was a strange duck – it was made of wood and had little felt feet attached to wheels at the base of the duck that flapped when you pulled it on a string. It was a child's toy.

No one – John, or Mary, or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, or Greg recognized it.

The other clue was the quote _"The heart has reasons that reason does not understand." -Blaise Pascal_

Nonsense. All of it.

* * *

It was ingenious, really. Forcing Sherlock to rely on his _friends_ for help deciphering clues. He'd have to interact with them – could not avoid them. Forcing him to spend time with them would reveal who was most important to him – who mattered most. It certainly forced Sherlock to contemplate whom, out of his small circle of friends, mattered most to him. His mind automatically said _John_, but he had a sneaking suspicion that that was not entirely true. They _all_ mattered, they _all_ offered him something he had not had before, and if he was being honest, there _was_ one person who was now nearly as important to him as John. He just didn't want to admit it, because that meant she was in grave danger, and it was all because he couldn't control his bloody _emotions_.

In order to defeat Moriarty, he'd have to find out what mattered most to Jim. The problem lay in the fact that there was just too much going on – both Sherlock and Mycroft were strung out over attempting to find out what was on Robert Conner's disk, where Jim and Janine were hiding, what mattered most to Jim, and the little clues Jim was leaving around the city. The clues Moriarty left were all related, sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly, to the few people in the world Sherlock loved.

Moriarty – and Janine - were hurting his friends in an attempt to hurt him – digging up painful memories and forcing Sherlock to witness his friends at their emotional worst. Sherlock decided Janine was to blame for this particularly nasty turn of events. It wasn't really Jim's style – he was more flamboyant than this – he liked explosions - and Janine had had years of experience twisting people's hearts and stomachs, working with Magnusson. It was a dangerous combination, Janine and Jim, Jim and Janine.

So – the Conners (although they didn't really _count_, they were more important to him than a random person on the street, and their mother was – well, she had counted, a long time ago), Redbeard, and Greg had already been targeted, psychologically speaking. A strange sort of apprehension filled his chest as he realized who was left – _Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mary, and John_.

Who was next?

* * *

Mrs. Abigail Norton strolled home on a sunny January day in Alexandria, Virginia. It was unseasonably warm, and the grass had not really ever completely died, so the yards were a strange mosaic of browns and dull greens. The trees' bare branches formed a pretty sort of silhouette against the blue-gray sky. She tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ears, and smiled cattily at the postman delivering mail to her neighbors. That was something she had never been able to change – her catty smile. She'd cut and died her hair several times, and changed her name, and the way she dressed, and even her profession – blackmailing dominatrixes are rare, and easily spotted by certain foreign nationals – but she'd never changed her smile. It was something ingrained into her very being.

It was the smile that had captivated (quite literally) so many of her…clients. And it was the smile that had eventually captivated her husband – Mr. Jeffery Norton, reformed gambler and self-made millionaire.

It made sense, really, that she would marry him. He was rich, and liked women who could control a social circle (and heaven knows she could be very _persuasive_ when she wanted to be), and he agreed to a pre-nup, and she'd planned to marry and divorce him like her last two husbands.

It didn't make sense that she fell in love. He wasn't extraordinary. He was handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way. He played a lot of sports, so he had a well-built body going for him, and he had dark hair and dark eyes, but was nothing like the sociopathic genius of a man she fell for years ago.

But he wasn't dangerous or particularly seductive or adventurous. He was just intelligent enough to have an extremely successful business, and have witty, teasing conversations with her, and he was loyal, and loved her unconditionally, and for some strange reason she loved him back, and so she stayed with him. Why not?

When she got pregnant a year after they were married, she kept the baby. It was a little boy. They named him William, and called him Will, and they were happy. He had the same dark hair and eyes that his parents had, and he was almost two years old, now. He loved animals – cats and dogs and birds, especially ducks. He had a little wooden duck that rolled along the floor, and he loved it. He called it 'Didi'. It went missing a week or so ago after a visit to the national park in D.C., and she'd walked down to the toy store a few blocks down to buy him a new one.

She'd left him with their trusted babysitter for the few hours she was gone – a girl named Jamie who lived next door. She was nineteen and studying to be a lawyer at a nearby university. Well…college. That's what they called it in America. College.

She smirked at the door to her home as she entered. _221 Gibbon Street_. It was funny, how some things follow you your whole life. She frowned when she saw that the door was ajar. She hadn't left it that way. In fact, she was always very careful to lock it.

Sherlock had done an admirable job, creating fake passports and identification cards for her, but she was always a cautious, private woman, and she always – _always_ – locked the door when she left.

Perhaps Jamie had taken the garbage out, or had thrown a bug outside (Will always insisted that they were not squashed, but returned to the 'ahside' – outside.) She pushed the door open carefully, her sculpted eyebrows settling back down on her face, as she didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"Will? I'm back, love! I've found a new Didi for you!" She called as she closed and locked the door behind her. She carefully placed her light coat on a hanger in the front closet.

No answer. She frowned. "Will? I've got you a new Didi!" She began to move around the house, looking in rooms and behind doors and out windows. "Jamie? Jamie? Will?"

Her voice became louder and her footsteps more frantic as she searched the house for her child and babysitter.

She found a note instead.

_Dearest Irene,_

_Long time no see! And here I thought you were dead. Naughty girl. Looks like the three of us should start some sort of club. Not sure if your faked death would count, though…considering the fact that you had help you didn't expect. Cheater, cheater pumpkin eater…_

_Why DID he save you, love? I'm curious. In fact, I'd like to speak with you about it. You'll find I've generously provided transportation for yourself and your child. _

There was an airplane ticket attached to the note with a paperclip. Irene Adler, alias Abigail Norton, removed it from the note with delicate fingers.

_Of course, the child is already with me. Not sure how you could bear to fly with the thing. Does he always scream so much? I'm doing you a favor, really. _

_Hotel Dénouement, Tuesday, 3 p.m. _

_-Jim xx_

_P.S. – You can call Sherlock, if you want. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see you again._

_P.P.S – (or is it P.S.S.?) – Didn't have room for the girl. You'll find her body in a dumpster on Franklin. Thought you might want to let her parents know she won't be home for supper. See you soon! _

* * *

**Don't forget to review please!**


	14. In Which Love Lies

**Hello! So this chapter is a little longer than usual to make up for the long wait. I hope you enjoy it.**

**Warning - something disturbing is done to a photograph of a child. Nothing to an actual child, just a photograph, but I wanted to warn you. Also, a miscarriage is referenced. (Don't worry, it's not Mary!)  
**

**I quote Robert Frost towards the end. I don't own his poetry.I also don't own Sherlock.  
**

_Chapter 14, In Which Love Lies_

"Ms. Brooks," a young man, dressed in a well-kept, if slightly worn, suit and business coat strode onto the patio of the little cottage in Sussex. He gently placed a briefcase, filled with his work from the past month in front of the petite, pretty woman sitting at the table.

"Thank you, Mr. Sims. Everything is here, yeah?" She smiled at him, and he couldn't help but smile back. She was a pretty little thing, with her dark hair and eyes and fancy pea coat and designer scarf.

"Yes, ma'am. Everything on the subjects you asked me to research – their lives, virtues, vices – everything."

"Very good. You've been most helpful. Join me for tea?" She gestured to the tea things on the table. It was a little odd, to have tea out of doors on such a cold January day, but he figured he shouldn't question her. She had a connection with a man who had a bit of a…reputation.

"Sure."

"Lovely. Tell me – in your own opinion – who do you think is…closest, to Mr. Holmes?" She poured him tea, and her hand hovered over the creamer. She looked at him expectantly. He shook his head.

"Sugar, or honey? This honey was made nearby, from local bees. It's delicious." She asked.

"Er…honey, I suppose."

She smiled and began stirring it into the tea, then handed it to him. He took a tentative sip. She inclined her head encouragingly.

"Well, Ms. Brooks, you were right when you said that he doesn't keep much company. He's a loner, for sure. But out of everyone, I'd say he's closest to that doctor fellow. Seems to spend the most time with him. Pesters him, almost, like a…a brother, I guess."

"Ah," she said, and her smile fell just a bit. Jason Sims took another sip of tea. His throat felt…scratchy. He cleared his throat and took another large sip.

"Well," she said, recovering brightly. "Then it's true what they say, isn't it?"

"What?" He asked, and his voice was hoarse now. His heart began to beat unusually fast, and he noticed it was getting harder to breathe.

"That if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Consider this your…termination of employment, Mr. Sims." Her voice was cheerful.

The last thing he saw was the smiling face of Janine Brooks.

* * *

Janine sifted through the contents of Mr. Sim's briefcase at her leisure, indoors, nursing a mug of cocoa before a roaring fire. What a stupid man, Mr. Sims was, to join her for tea on the _patio_ of her little cottage in mid-January. He should have known something was amiss.

No matter now. He was the last of the investigators hired to look into the lives of Sherlock Holmes and his associates. They were all relatively stupid – of course it was _impossible_ to find good help these days – but they _were_ very good at remaining invisible.

Except for Forthright – he was an imbecile, and was captured by one of Mycroft's men. Serves him right, getting a knife in the gut. Janine had no patience for stupidity.

Jason Sims, along with eighteen other investigators, had been watching Sherlock, Greg Lestrade, John and Mary Watson, Martha Hudson, and Molly Hooper since the Watson's wedding.

They'd found out quite a lot, actually. The investigators had been too stupid to see it – they just collected the data. It was up to Janine and Jim to analyze it. And oh – analyze it they did!

They had a fairly solid ranking of the people in Sherlock's life, from least to most important – in other words, least to most likely to garner an intense reaction from Sherlock should misfortune become them. There was just a little matter of finding out who came _first_. That was when Jim had called in an _old friend_. Well…that was when he'd taken the liberty of bringing her to London.

They'd been slowly working their way up that list. Janine smiled as she came across yet another photo of Sherlock pausing in the hallway of St. Bart's. You had to watch, with Sherlock. It weren't his actions that gave him away – he was always so used to acting, action, working, all the time - it was his _hesitation_. The way he hesitated, just a bit, before entering the door of the lab that housed one Molly Hooper. It was as though he was unsure of why he was there, or how to behave around her.

She continued flipping through the files and smiled as she thought of the appetizing little post Jim had sent on its way to dear Mrs. Hudson.

Janine was going to help Jim burn the heart out of Sherlock. She just needed Sherlock to realize to whom it belonged, first.

She had her reasons.

* * *

Forty years ago, Martha Hudson had a husband. She was a beautiful woman, and tried to be a good one, but she had fallen in love with the wrong man too early in life. She'd married him, and had become a member of his drug cartel in Florida, and had also performed as an exotic dancer at several of his clubs. Her life was difficult for a long time.

Then, when she was thirty-two years old, she'd met a man named Dennis. Silly name. But he was a good man – an undercover cop, trying to get enough evidence to send her husband to prison for life for his part in the deaths of so many underage children, caught up in the drug business. He had dirty blonde hair, and crooked teeth, and was just a little overweight. He was also gruff and charming when he wanted to be and he had a family – two sisters and a brother, all of who were married with children. Dennis was married to his work, but he loved children. He was an excellent uncle. Martha never witnessed this, but she could tell. She could always tell things about people, without really knowing how. And people usually liked her, so they opened up to her a lot.

Dennis opened up to her, and she opened up to Dennis. He was a good man, and her husband was not. Her husband was cruel and nasty and an absolute, complete bugger. They became friends, and then – even though he was always professional and nothing happened between them – Martha found herself falling for Dennis. He wasn't attractive to look at – not like her current husband – but he had a beautiful soul, and she realized that he was a more attractive human being than her husband could ever be.

One night, many months later, something did happen between them, and Martha became pregnant. She was scared and surrounded by her husband's henchman every day, and when she could no longer hide her pregnancy, she went to Dennis. He was supportive and protective and vowed that she and the child would be safe.

He almost succeeded. He had nearly everything he needed to prosecute, and he had backup the night he went to search Louis's home and business. It was pure luck that Louis's wild shooting met a mark. It met Dennis's head. He died instantly.

When Martha received the news, she was inconsolable. When she miscarried two weeks later – a boy, a son she named Benjamin - she left the country, never to return. In London, a few years later, she'd made friends with a young man named Sherlock Holmes. He had dark curls and eyes that reminded her of Dennis's – they were Dennis's one redeeming physical feature – and he – Sherlock Holmes - was addicted to drugs. Drugs that were very similar to the kind manufactured by her husband. She saw him through his addiction – sort of – she'd talked to him from time to time, and when he got clean, she offered him a place to stay, on one condition – she'd heard from an old friend that her husband was going to get off of the charges Dennis had worked so hard to pile against him. She knew the young man was brilliant, and he ensured her that her husband would receive the death penalty. He kept his word, and she kept hers. She was thrilled when another young man moved in with Sherlock. She never told anyone about the pregnancy or the miscarriage, but she always imagined that with Sherlock's eyes and John's hair – well – the two of them really _were_ her boys. She loved them, and they kept her from wondering what could have been, with Dennis and Benjamin. And now – with Mary pregnant – it was almost like she was going to be a grandmother. Almost.

Until one day, barely a week after Sherlock's return from exile, she received a piece of mail.

_A tisket, a tasket – _

_A green and yellow casket._

_Your son has died, your tears are dried_

_But more will come, bet on it._

The note was water stained in one corner. Attached was a picture of the scan of John and Mary's baby, with pen marks scratching out the eyes, and holes poked through its little body.

Martha Hudson dropped it, as though it scalded her, and she had called Sherlock, who had immediately called John and Mary as well.

Mrs. Hudson had not stopped crying since revealing the truth about her son to Sherlock, John, and Mary. Tea was made, and Mary told Mrs. Hudson a bit about her past as a 'sharpshooter' – _I'm a crack shot, Mrs. Hudson – really!_, to try and calm her down. It did serve to cheer her, but the older woman was still hiccupping and wringing her hands with nervous grief. Mary was obviously distressed at the note as well, although she did a fair job of masking it in front of Martha. Sherlock had quickly and quietly removed the note and picture from the room, and sent it to Molly to analyze. The paper from the previous notes had been common, although pollen spores and certain dust mites had confirmed that the notes had been written from somewhere within London's city limits. Other than the pollen and dust and smoke particles that could have come from any diesel lorry in London, there were no identifying substances on them. Perhaps this paper and photocopy would offer up more information.

He and John and Mary did their best to console Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock did all he could to hunt down the origins of the note - then Sherlock made a call to his brother - nothing new on the Robert Conners angle, and dead ends all around in the hunt for Janine and Jim's whereabouts – and then went to the lab to discuss the results of the analysis with Molly.

* * *

When he came in, Molly had her hair French-braided in a long strand down her back. Her lab coat swayed as she moved silently between microscope and chemicals and paperwork. She was all innocence and business – with her clothes and hair and goggles she looked like a student in her first year at uni – and Sherlock swallowed, nerves tingling in his stomach and fingers. Here was the woman who mattered most, who meant as much as John, and he feared that she was next. _The Conners. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Mary and the baby. _Only Molly and John were left to threaten. If Lestrade's pain had made him uncomfortable, and Mrs. Hudson's had distressed him – what would _their_ pain do to him? He shuddered to think at the affect it would have on his mental capabilities.

Molly gave him a grim sort of smile when she noticed him. "Hello, Sherlock. Same sort of pollen and dust spores and smoke particles on this…but something new, too." She moved so he could look through the microscope himself.

"It's algae."

"Yup. Specific sort, too. Looked it up. That particular type only lives in the area on the Thames where the smelting factory dumps its runoff. There were only a few small samples on the paper, and none on the scan. I don't think the scan was made in the same place as the note."

He stared into the microscope, mind whirring as he did his best to narrow the prospective hiding places of James Moriarty and Janine Brooks down in his head, and what on earth they both cared for the most in the world. He could bet it wouldn't be something _boring_, like money or power or a person.

He suspected that Jim cared most for destroying him. Even as a high-functioning sociopath with a sneering disregard for most soft sciences, he had to admit that psychology did occasionally uncover certain truths. And everything that he'd analyzed so far – every message and clue pointed to the fact that Jim did, indeed, want to burn the heart out of Sherlock.

Before, Jim had thought that Sherlock's work mattered most to him – that his work, and intelligence, were Sherlock's heart. In all honesty, that's what Sherlock used to believe, too. Now – though – now, there was a smart, cheeky, pregnant ex-assassin nurse and her adrenaline-junkie-of-a-husband doctor and a hopelessly awkward, endearing, intelligent pathologist – and they all weighed equally on his heart.

At least, that's what he told himself. Because to admit one meant more than another would mean admitting something akin to his own ruin.

_Caring is not an advantage_.

"Yes." He confirmed belatedly, joining her in analyzing the paper and photocopy. He said nothing for a long time, until he noticed Molly was looking at him – studying him in her own way, and making her own amazingly accurate deductions.

He knew she was going to say something devastatingly awkward and beautiful again (_beautiful? Really, Sherlock? Sentimental tripe!)_, about how he was scared or brave or lonely or sad, and he couldn't have that, because he was trying very hard not to have _any_ emotions at the moment. Identifying them would only lead to feeling them, and that would be disastrous.

"What do you think they care about most?" He said, focusing his gaze on the microscope.

"Hmm? Who?" Good. The question distracted her.

"Moriarty. Janine. What do you think they care about most in the world?"

"Um…blowing things up? Ruining people's lives?"

His eyes narrowed at her. "I'm being serious, Molly. What do they want from all of this?"

His tone was so serious, Molly squirmed. "Er…psychology's really…not my area, Sherlock."

"_Think_, Molly. Why would they do this? What do they want, in the end? Power? He already has power – and so does Janine. They're famous – well, notorious might be more appropriate vernacular, and they have power. He could not reasonably expect to be pitied or adored, now that his Richard Brooks scheme has failed. He has power, and he has fame, and he obviously has money…what matters most to them?"

Molly stared quietly at the petri dish in front of her, swishing a glass rod around it again and again. "It seems to me…" she said slowly, not taking her eyes off of the glass, "that the thing that matters most to them, is bringing you down. Destroying you. By destroying the people you care about."

She sounded just a bit sad at that – sadness covered over with false relief - and he realized, once again, she was underestimating her importance to himself. She hadn't been targeted yet, but that was just because she was…well, she counted. Immensely.

"Mmm." He muttered, re-focusing on the slide beneath the microscope. In his head, though, his mind was spinning. Molly was always good at reading people – she saw him, she saw things about everyone – and her answer confirmed what he already suspected.

He would not send the guess yet, though. He wanted to be sure, and he wanted time to track one or both of them down. He wanted time to get ahead.

"Ah!" He cried suddenly, noticing that Molly's petri dish was beginning to collect precipitate.

Molly started. "What?"

He took the dish from her, and carefully placed some of it on a slide. "Yes, yes! There's always something – he always makes a mistake-"

"What's his mistake?"

He grinned at her. "A boat engine – diesel - that leaks power steering fluid."

* * *

The lead was good.

After discovering traces of power steering fluid on the note, Sherlock was able to deduce that Jim – or Janine – or both – had been hiding in a boat on the river. Most likely an old houseboat or tugboat, judging from the fluid.

That explained why certain elements – such as the pollen and dust – were always similar, and why other elements changed regularly. They (or he or she) were always moving from port to port, up and down the river. Using the trace elements, he was able to plot out the rudimentary course they'd taken the past week.

A short call to Lestrade and Mycroft alerted the authorities, and the search could begin.

He smirked. He still had five days before the deadline, and he was ahead of the game.

* * *

Then came the curveball – the Chance card – the unanticipated occurrence.

Sherlock had not heard from or seen the Woman since he'd helped her fake her death nearly four years ago. He'd tried – once – during his own 'death' – to track her down, see if she was still as intriguing. He hadn't been able to. The crafty, blackmailing dominatrix had disappeared as surely as though she really _had_ died.

How had Jim found her?

Because later that evening, feeling confident and gloating over the new direction Moriarty's game had gone – he'd received a text from her.

_Hello, Sherlock. Still the Virgin? –xo_

_I'm back in town, dear. Come visit. Hotel Denouement, 2 p.m. tomorrow. We can have lunch. –xo_

_Jim's got something of mine, and I need your help getting it back. –xo_

He stared at the screen, jaw clenching and unclenching as he sat, deep in thought. He was balancing the probability that Jim had truly targeted her in an effort to get to him with the probability that she was in on whatever Jim was planning. It was fairly even. He had spurned her on several occasions, but he _had_ saved her life, in the end. It was a difficult decision. He hadn't yet responded, several hours later, when another text arrived.

_Please. _

It was that plain word, with no cattiness or flirtation, that tilted the probability in her favor. It brought back the memory of her tear-filled, desperate eyes, when he'd solved the password on her phone. She was in trouble then, and she was in trouble now.

All bets were off, in this game.

No – not a game. This was war.

* * *

After arrangements were made (Mary was to stay with Molly at the hospital, then they were to have a nice evening in, visiting and chatting – it was both to keep _Molly _protected and to keep _Mary _out of trouble.) – John and Sherlock both caught a cab for the hotel.

On the way, Sherlock divulged to John that – surprise! Irene Adler was not dead, either!

John took it rather well. He stared straight ahead, perfectly still, for thirty-three seconds, working it out in his head.

Then he started laughing. "I don't believe it. I mean- yeah, I believe it, but-" and more incredulous, snorting laughter, at the impossibility of the situation they were in. "You're just - mmm. So, I'm going to tea in the company of a dead man, to speak with a dead woman, about another dead man – none of who are _actually _dead. Any other secrets you've been keeping from me, then?" His voice was stern, but his eyes were still laughing.

Sherlock's shoulders loosened in relief. John hadn't punched him over _this_ fake death.

After all, John hadn't been all _that_ fond of Irene.

"No," Sherlock replied gravely, though the cheeky smile forming on his face gave away his mirth.

* * *

They arrived precisely at two. Sherlock scanned the lobby impatiently, and his eyes returned to a woman – _32-24-34_ – shorter hair – a bob? – something stylish, just below her chin – she inclined her head slightly – pointedly - and walked into the tea room adjoining the lobby. He nodded at John, who followed.

They found her at table a near a window, wearing a classy pants suit, her eyes watching them from over a menu.

"Ms. Adler," Sherlock nodded his greeting, clasping his gloves and standing awkwardly, eyes moving around the room. Nothing seemed amiss, yet.

John broke the silence quickly. "Right – you look – well, for being dead. Really well." He sighed and gripped the chair in front of him, giving a sideways glance to Sherlock. "Course, so does he."

Irene smirked at him. "I'm flattered, Doctor. I see congratulations are in order." She nodded to the ring on his finger.

He stared down at it. "Yeah. Thanks. Very nice. Lovely woman. I think you'd get on well."

Sherlock snorted.

She smiled at him, but the smug cattiness was gone from her eyes. "Sit." She motioned to the two unoccupied chairs at the table.

"And why are we here, then?" John asked, frowning at the fancy cutlery laid out before him. "Jim's got something of yours? He's targeting you, now?"

Irene raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. His eyes narrowed at her, deducing her. "You're married."

"Yes. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, darling. You'll have to do better than that."

"This is your third husband since your 'death'. You've dyed your hair twice since 'dying', and wore contacts for quite a while, but they bothered your eyes. You've since returned to your natural hair and eye color, though you've cut it. Long hair suited you better, Mrs.-?"

"Norton, now."

"Mrs. Norton. You look like a…" he racked his brain for a suitable American epitaph – "posh 'soccer mom' with that haircut. Ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as the fact that you _love_ him, now? Went in to scam him, and fell for him? You take excellent care of this particular wedding ring, Mrs. Norton. Don't suppose it's him that Jim has?"

She smirked. "Hmm. No, not him. Love knows no reason, darling. And – you _can_ call me Irene, Sherlock. Or Abigail. Either suits me quite well."

"I prefer to use a more formal address when dealing with clients."

"So I'm a client now?" She pouted prettily.

"That is why you asked me here. For my help."

"True." She sat forward, tracing her index finger around the rim of her teacup. "Jim has something very _valuable_ to me, and I need it back. He's supposed to meet me here at 3 p.m. I'd very much like to give him what he wants with as little trouble to all of us as possible. I _do_ still owe you, darling, for saving my life."

Sherlock made a non-committal grunt, and began to take off his scarf and coat. John joined him, and the two men sat across from Mrs. Abigail Norton. There was a moment of awkward silence as Irene ordered for them (Nilgirl, please, with fresh fruit and sandwiches – no? Well then, just the tea, then. You _do_ remember Nilgirl, don't you, Sherlock? Very pleasant fruity flavor – _excellent_ with honey – theirs is made from bees in Sussex, isn't that charming?), and then she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"Why _did_ you save my life, Sherlock?"

His brows furrowed and he glanced up, sharply, at her. John glanced between the two of them, curious himself.

Irene pressed on. "I mean, surely you didn't _love_ me." Light laughter, but still hearty, like the sound of clinking silverware – "I certainly saw that the night with your brother when you unlocked my phone. Left me to the dogs, didn't you?" She tsked. "Naughty boy. Played with me and then tossed me away." The corner of her mouth lifted up in a pleasant smirk. She leaned forward, slightly, and her voice lowered. "So why did you return? Why save me?"

"Why do you want to know now? You certainly didn't care _why_ the night I saved you."

"Well it would have been rude to ask then, wouldn't it? 'Oh, Sherlock, thank you for saving my life – why did you bother?' Rather rude, darling."

"Yes, but why now?" His voice was terse and his eyes were suddenly very intense. Irene returned his fiery gaze with a cool one. There was moment of tension, and then –

Irene chuckled. "Well, no matter. I can see that you didn't _love_ me then, and you still don't. I was probably a puzzle to you, then? A game? You do enjoy playing games, I've been told."

Sherlock's glare confirmed her hypothesis. "You beat me once, Mrs. Norton. You provided me with a challenge, and one that provided my mind with excellent exercise. I felt I should repay you for that. You were an…admirable adversary." _And quite stunning, once...I considered you a...friend._

"Thank you. I consider it a very high compliment." Irene eyed the table where the tea things were now laid out carefully. She poured, and silence commenced while the tea was fixed and the three sat sipping it.

"So," she said, "if you're not here because you care for _me_, who are you here for?"

Sherlock glanced up at her, coolly, this time. "You requested my assistance with James Moriarty. As you've obviously heard, apparently he's faked his death as well."

Irene smiled. "Yes, I've heard. You sound a bit miffed at that, dear."

"Yeah – took some of the shock and awe out of _his_ fake suicide. Never likes to be one-upped." John muttered into his tea.

Sherlock smirked. "And he's got Janine Brooks, this time. Master blackmailer. Knows people's pressure points - even better than you, I think."

Irene returned his gaze. "So it seems. I did wonder how he found me. Only a woman would have been clever enough to do so. Which begs the question – is there a woman in your life, now, Sherlock?" She watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye as she carefully returned her teacup to its saucer.

"Don't be ridiculous. I told you, I don't _do _dinner."

"Of course not. It seems the good doctor and I have moved on, and you, dear Sherlock, have remained the same as ever."

He flashed a cheeky grin at her. "Still a machine, yes. Very efficient."

"Yes. Very. What about that darling pathologist? The one who embarrassed herself dressing up for you on Christmas Eve? Has she moved on as well?" She glanced slyly up at him from beneath long lashes.

The twitch – the slightest movement of Sherlock's countenance – gave him away. It was quickly recovered, and not even John noticed it, as he was frowning at his teacup. Too sweet for his tastes. He pushed it away. Irene did notice Sherlock's reaction, however.

"I'd hardly know."

"Wha – you're the one who noticed she'd broken things off with her fiancée." John stared at him incredulously.

"Really?" Irene purred.

"Well, I mean, she was slapping him – bit of a tight spot on a case, did something stupid, and I'd have liked to punch him in the face as well. Anyways, he noticed she didn't have her ring on – of course he'd notice something like that." John snorted. "Probably studied the affects of jewelry in hand-to-hand combat or something."

"So you do notice her, Sherlock. Fascinating. Perhaps there's hope for you yet." Her smile was genuine, but the tense look returned to her eyes as she glanced at the clock in on the wall on the far side of the room.

Sherlock cleared his throat, irritated. "Yes, it is nearly two-thirty, and we still haven't discussed anything about your case. What does he have? What does he want in exchange?"

Irene smiled sadly at him, and she swallowed, staring at the dregs of her tea. She sighed, and when she looked back up at the two men, there were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm really, truly sorry, Sherlock. I never wanted to hurt you. I did love you, once."

Sherlock looked sharply at her, then around the room, as though the thing she was sorry for was about to leap out at them with guns blazing or knives whizzing through the air. "Sorry for what? What does he want?" His voice was as sharp as his gaze.

John looked around as well.

Irene hesitated. "You've already given him what he wants, Sherlock. I'm – sorry. He has – he has-"

"Mama!" a cry came from across the room, and Irene leapt up, upsetting the decorative jar of honey by her hand, and looking around the room, beautiful and fierce as a tiger.

"William?"

"Mama!" A little boy, no more than two years old, with straight dark hair and dark eyes and a pale, sticky face, rushed to her from across the room. He flung himself into her arms, and she wrapped them around him with all the ferocity he could handle.

"William, I'm sorry. Are you all right?" She sat him in her lap, and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. She smiled at him, and tears slid out from her eyes, one by one.

"Okay, Mama. Where Dada?"

"He's home, Will. Home with Didi. We're going home, too. Do you want to go home?"

"Yes Mama. Home."

* * *

Sherlock and John had rushed across the room in the direction the little boy had come from, only to be met with dozens of waiters and waitresses and customers and thin air. Sherlock growled in frustration and sent a text to his brother.

_Moriarty or his men. Hotel Denouement, now. Need surveillance footage. – SH_

He and John then returned to the table, where Irene was still holding her child in her arms. He stared up at the two men with wide eyes. "Mama?"

"It's okay, Will. They…they're Mama's friends," she said sadly.

"No, we're not," Sherlock corrected angrily. "What did you mean, we've already given him what he wants? And you have a _son_?"

"You say that like it's some sort of betrayal, darling."

"No, just a disappointment."

"Ah. Well." Irene stood to go.

"You're not leaving," Sherlock said simply. Dangerously.

"Yes, we are. You'll find that if we are not on the next flight to Washington D.C., Big Ben will…malfunction. Not my idea. Jim has stayed crafty, darling. He's a slippery man. And Janine…Janine has created a rather sticky situation for all of us. She learned a lot from Charles Magnusson."

"You think I care at all for Big Ben? What I care about-"

"Careful, darling." There was a pleading warning in Irene's eyes, though her voice was still light. She opened her mouth once again, and closed it, battling with herself. She closed her eyes, and then Will was tugging on her hand.

"Mama?" He asked, and then pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket.

"What's this, Will?" She looked at it curiously, then raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "For you. I believe it's your next clue, darling." She placed it on the table, where a sticky stream honey began to run onto its crumpled edges.

Sherlock snatched it up and unfolded it, wiping the tiniest bit of residue on his trousers. He frowned as he read the message:

_Love is a decision, not an emotion. – Anonymous_

Decisions, Decisions:

_Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice._

_-Robert Frost_

Good old Robbie.

How will your world end, Sherlock?

It's up to you.

Two if by land, one if by sea.

See you soon. Maybe.

-JM

* * *

**Bwahahaha! Ooh, I'm so excited for the next chapter - I've already started on it and it's title is _In Which Love is War._ We will get to see a confrontation between Janine and Sherlock, and a lot of exciting action. Yay! **

**Hmmm...can you tell anything about Jim's plan from the clues? Should be interesting. :)  
**


	15. In Which Love is War

***Edit* Just added a few lines about John noticing Mary's wound later in the chapter...thank you to loveibirds413 for noticing that so I could fix it! :) ***

**Thank you, thank you to all of the reviewers, followers, and favoriters! (I think I just made that word up – favoriters? People who favorite? I don't know…)**

**Anyways, I'm so happy you're enjoying the story! (My eighth grade theater teacher would have said I'm 'skippy-peachy'.) Thank you to lovebird and Einvine and Cat Francis for the lovely, encouraging reviews. I can't thank you enough! **

**I'd especially like to thank Einvine for discussing Jim's movitations with me. It gave me some confidence and made me more sure of my story line. I LOVED writing this chapter, and I hope you love reading it. **

**I do not own Sherlock or the A-Team (short little A-team reference at the beginning, here…gotta love 80s television). **

**Buckle up, folks. This chapter is one heck of a wild ride. :) **

_Chapter 15, In Which Love is War_

A young brunette woman in an impeccable business suit strode quickly down the hallway, her designer heels making pleasant _clicking_ noises as she walked. She did enjoy the sound of her own footsteps – it meant action, movement – moving forward. And ever since she'd acquired the position of personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes several years ago, she'd certainly been moving forward.

She smirked to herself and she went over the files one last time – Mr. Holmes would be incredibly pleased with this new piece of intelligence. And no one had had to die for it, this time. She did love it when a plan came together.

She rapped smartly on the door to his office, and closed the file carefully.

"Come in, Anthea." She pushed the heavy wooden door open just enough for her to enter, and then shut it carefully behind her. Mycroft sat at his desk, papers and folders neatly stacked around his laptop – ever the organizer. He looked at her expectantly.

"We've got a lead on Robert Conners' floppy disk, sir. Ian and Sarah went over what we could salvage of his old files, and they realized that in it were formulas and schematics for a remote of sorts – one that could effectively turn _anything_ on or off."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow incredulously. Surely she did not expect him to believe Jim Moriarty stole the code for a universal remote. She walked to his desk and handed him the file, which he immediately opened and began to flip through.

"Of course, after exhausting the files in the possession of the Conners family, we requested files from MI-6 and the British Armed Forces and discovered some credence to Sarah's theories. An experimental cesium battery disappeared from the Baskerville lab last year, and was never recovered. Sarah believes that the battery is the key to the remote – she says that following her father's notes, with a few minor adjustments, all she'd theoretically need are parts found in any new computer, GPS, or cell phone to build the remote, if she had the battery. Whether or not it would actually _work_…" She did not need to explain further.

Mycroft sifted through the last few pages of the folder and stared at it for a moment, deep in thought. "I see her point. Using simple reflection and refraction from the nation's satellites, in addition to disrupting the frequencies and signals from land units, could, in theory, 'turn off' all communications devices in a certain area. How large the area is…that depends on the strength of the signal and battery broadcasting it, and its proximity to important communications bases – cell phone towers, broadcasting stations, the like. Yes," he said, closing the folder and handing it back to Anthea, "this is the most plausible theory for the contents of the floppy disk that we have to work with at this point it time. Please advise Lady Smallwood, the Prime Minister, and the rest that there is a great probability that we will be working blind and deaf to the rest of the world very soon. Code Blue is in effect, as is Communication Level Twelve. We must prepare for the worst."

"Yes sir." She took the folder without hesitation and turned to leave. She stopped at the door, and looked back at her boss. He was already refocused on his phone, frowning at the text message that had just arrived.

* * *

When Sherlock and John looked up from the note, brows furrowed, Irene and her child were gone. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and growled in frustration. He pulled out his phone and texted both Mycroft and Lestrade about the note, and to send a unit to St. Bart's and to John and Mary's flat, all while telling John to call Mary and warn her to be on high alert, and not to let Molly out of her sight.

There was something…something about their meeting with Irene that did not fit. Sherlock always saw the world in black and white, but this case was full of greys. He had thought that either Irene would be working for Jim willingly, or she would be targeted, and in turn, would help Sherlock to work against him. But Jim had kidnapped her son and forced her to work for him…to get her to get Sherlock to give him what he wanted. And now that she had her son back – safe – she was gone.

What had he wanted?

What mattered most to Jim?

_To destroy you, Sherlock, by destroying the people you care about_.

What mattered most to _him_? What did he care about? Who hadn't been directly targeted, yet?

John, Mary, Molly – John was with him – Mary and Molly were together – he closed his eyes to concentrate.

_Irene pops into his head. She's wearing her battle suit – and her hair is its proper length again, pulled back in her classic twist. She did disappoint him. She changed. And change…change is painful, and unpredictable…so many variables…She shakes her head at him. _

_"You didn't love me, Sherlock. I'm a game – a puzzle – and you've solved me. I'm as ordinary as everyone else, underneath it all – I bleed, I cry, I love. I'm just a little prettier and smarter than everyone else. Including you. But you can solve this puzzle, too, darling_. _We can always have dinner later, to celebrate._" _She smiles wickedly at him._

John frowned at his mobile. "Mary's not answering."

_"What did we talk about, Sherlock? Think. What did I ask you? More importantly – what did you tell me?"_

Sherlock ignored John, who was dialing Molly's number now, just to be sure Mary wasn't on the toilet or in the shower or something like that.

_Sherlock closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he is standing at the tea table, half an hour ago, when the three of them sat down together. He stands between John and Irene, where he has a clear view of everyone's faces – including his own- and also a clear view of the room. He fast-forwards their conversation, pausing and rewinding every now and then, and thirty seconds later – he has it._

_A woman at the table next to them has a hearing aid – but it's not a hearing aid; when Irene's child screamed and ran across the room; when he cried in her lap – she did not move to take it out, did not move to turn it down, although she flinched at his loud cries. Her head was always inclined towards their table, and never moved. It was a bug – a microphone – Jim had been listening in on their conversation. _

_"Yes, good, good – but what did you tell me, Sherlock?" Irene's frowning at him, and she has her arms crossed across her chest. _

_He frowns and plays through the conversation again_.

John's frown deepened. "Molly's not answering, either. I'll try St. Bart's. Maybe Molly got stuck pulling a double shift."

_Sherlock pulls out the pieces of the conversation – what he told her. That she was married, deductions – unimportant. That she looked better with long hair_.

_"Stop. Why long hair?" Irene asks, interrupting him, pulling out her twist and shaking her hair down around her shoulders. _

_Sherlock is confused. "It suits you better."_

_She smiles knowingly at him. "It suits __me__ better? Or it suits __you__ better?"_

_"You-" he begins to say, but then he realizes – most of the time her hair is pulled back in a fancy twist at the nape of her neck. Her new shorter style accentuates her jawline and cheekbones just as much as her up-dos used to. So no, it doesn't necessarily suit __her__ better – he just preferred her with long hair. Why long hair?_

_There must be some sort of connection – _

_"Hullo! All right?" Molly appears, with her hair –long hair – in a ponytail, and her same silly jumper and lab coat on. She smiles nervously at Irene, eyebrows puckered together. "Why…are you naked?"_

_Irene opens her mouth to reply, but Sherlock stops her. Them. Himself. "Stop it. Go away – you." He tells Mind-Molly. She disappears. Mind-Irene turns to him, a smug smile on her face. "That's good, darling. Progress. So you like long hair. What else did you tell me?"_

_What else did I tell Jim? _

_He fast forwards through their conversation again – not giving Irene an answer – she gave him one, put words in his mouth – "you didn't love me…you love puzzles" – he agrees – he compliments her – 'an admirable adversary', but only as a friend – yes, she is – was – a friend._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows over his still-closed eyes as he realized that with that response, he had effectively confirmed – for Jim, listening in with that hearing-aid-woman – that Irene did not count…she had served her purpose, and he did feel something for her – he came to help her, didn't he? – but she'd gotten an answer out of him that saved herself and her son from further harassment from Jim. She'd been trying to eliminate herself as a pressure point.

_"They're Mama's friends, Will."_

_"No, we're not."_

She had succeeded.

_"What else did you tell me, Sherlock?" Her voice is sadder now – gentler, as though she's leading a child to admit to something she knows he's guilty of._

_Jim, Janine, faked death – ._

_John's moved on – yes – machine – yes – _

_Pathologist. _

_You do notice her._

_You notice her._

_John and Mary and Sherlock and Molly – Mary is John's pressure point, and Molly – Molly is – _

He couldn't admit that Molly was to him what Mary was to John.

_Molly is one of my greatest pressure points. Molly and John. Equal, and slightly above Mary –_

_No. Mary had to stay equal with Molly and John, because she was carrying John's baby._

_He frowns deeply. _

_You've already given him what he wants, Sherlock_.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. Molly. He was after Molly, now – for real, this time. And Mary…

"Hello, Sherlock! I _said_," John huffed, "that St. Bart's said Mary and Molly left about forty-five minutes ago. They're not answering their phones." His eyes pleaded with Sherlock to tell him that it was all right – that maybe Mycroft had taken them, or the D.I., or maybe Mary had hidden them away somewhere -

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "We may be too late, then."

"Too late? What the bloody – what do you _mean_, too late? We just left them a little over an hour ago! What about all those people watching them, hmm? Mycroft's men? Your homeless network? What do you mean, too late?!"

* * *

_1 Hour Ago_

Molly finished her shift shortly after the boys had said their goodbyes. Mary was always good company – she didn't come to the lab often, but every now and then, when she did, she never minded the corpses or body parts or the strong smell of disinfectant. She was cheerful and funny and Molly soon found an easy rhythm in their time together. Mary had a talent for making people comfortable, and Molly appreciated that – as most of the time, she felt anything but _comfortable_ around Sherlock. She'd improved, the past three years, to be sure – and when they were alone, she _was_ comfortable with him - but there was still always that tiniest prick of sadness, or embarrassment, when he said something cutting in front of their friends. Mary helped with that – with a sassy remark or soft laugh or swat to the back of Sherlock's head, she could turn the conversation around and make everyone forget about whatever it was he'd just said. They were different, in that way – Molly stood up to Sherlock by calling him out, and often, it made the situation even more uncomfortable for a few moments, until Sherlock awkwardly apologized. Mary stood up to him by slyly diverting the room's attention to something other than himself, giving him time to reflect on his poor word choices. She was cunning – Mary Morstan-Watson.

Molly smiled. Mary would be a good mother.

As the two made their way out of St. Barts, they discussed possible late lunch choices. Molly deferred to Mary's choice of Italian ("I just can't get enough carbs, with this girl!"), and they were about to hail a cab when Mary stopped them. She gripped Molly's arm, suddenly, on the last few steps of St. Bart's, and looked around. A few people milled around outside – it was a nice enough day – but Molly could tell by the warning in her fingertips that Mary thought something was wrong.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Molly asked.

Mary looked around, one hand on Molly's arm, one on her round belly. "No one's following us," she said, her voice low.

Molly was confused. "Well – isn't that a good thing?"

"No. Not good – we've had tails for the past two weeks, Molly, ever since Jim returned and started with his egotistic reign of terror…either police or Mycroft's men or Sherlock's homeless network. None of them are here now."

"Oh," Molly said, voice small, suddenly viewing everyone around with suspicion.

A taxicab stopped in front of the hospital. A woman, with dark hair, rolled down the window – was it – ?!

"Afternoon, Mary, Molly," Janine nodded to them, cheerfully. "Let me take you for a ride."

Both women took a step backwards. Mary looked around, carefully, noting their options for escape, and stopped when she looked at Molly. Molly had a little red dot on her forehead, and was staring at Mary's face in horror. Apparently she had a little red dot of doom on her forehead as well. Mary leaned in to whisper something to Molly, when a shot rang out, followed shortly by screams and sirens on the street.

Both girls flinched and Molly gasped, staring at her hands, then at Mary's face. Then, she looked around, confused. Ah – there –

An unfortunate bystander, killed, just a few meters down the street.

Janine had reached around and opened the back door for them. "It wasn't a suggestion, ladies. Get in." She smiled prettily at Mary. "We have some catching up to do."

As the girls slid into the taxicab, the red dots followed them. They sat stiffly in the back seat, where Janine pulled her own gun from the glove box and trained it on them. "Handbags, please, and phones, if they are not in the handbags."

The women handed them over. Janine checked through them, quickly, and recovered both of the mobile phones, setting them on the passenger's seat.

She also pulled out a clear box, with two pills inside, and two bottles of water. She tossed the ladies each a bottle of water, single handedly, and then deftly opened the pill box and placed them in the palm of her open hand. The gun never wavered.

"These are pills that will cause you to lose consciousness for approximately one hour. They are not lethal, and will not in any way harm your wee one, Mary. Take them."

Mary shot a glance at Molly. "And what happens if we refuse?"

Janine's smile froze for a moment, and then she fired her gun.

* * *

Mary woke up, with her wrists firmly tied to a wooden chair, which was in turn bolted to the floor, in the corner of a room. Quickly regaining consciousness, her sharp, trained eyes took in the room around her.

_Second floor, bedroom – wait – _

The walls were painted a mint green, with pink and lavender flowers stenciled around the top of the walls, near the ceiling. A white dresser and toy box sat next to and beneath the lattice window, respectively. A worn, woven rug sat in the center of the room, warming the old wood floors. To her right, a closet, filled with the clothes of a small child, sat partly open. A white crib sat in the corner, with a pretty pink quilt on it. In the center of the crib sat a teddy bear.

It was grotesquely out of place in the sweet, pristine room. The bear looked like it had been shot – dirty, fluffy stuffing stuck out of a hole in its chest. It was missing an eye, and – yes, that was blood spattered on the upper right side of its head.

Her heart rate began to increase. Mary recognized that bear. In fact, she recognized this room.

_It was the night of her first…assassination. She was to sneak into the spacious home of a doctor in Germany working for a crime lord who controlled the black market on human organs and kill him. The doctor had been dipping into the profits, and it was her job to dispose of him. _

_He was supposed to be in the master bedroom, on the top floor of the house, sleeping. His wife was out of town for the week, and it would be the perfect opportunity for Mary to complete her job. She easily made it past the security system – standard, nothing fancy – and snuck in through the patio door that led to the master bedroom._

_He wasn't in the room. Heart pumping out adrenaline within her, she checked under the bed, in the closets, in the loo. No luck. She smiled. A chase. She enjoyed chases._

_She made her way through the upper rooms of the house, and stopped when she reached the third door on her left. It was cracked open, and standing there, looking through the crack the door made with the wall -, moonlight illuminated the figure of the doctor, bending over a…crib?_

_The muffled sound of shushing and crying reached her ears, and for a split second, Mary's wrist loosened. _

_Shaking unpleasant thoughts out of her head and stiffening her wrist, she stepped briskly into the room and pointed her gun at the doctor. He froze, cradling a baby – a little girl, a few months old – in his arms. The moonlight through the tree outside gave the room a dappled, ethereal feel, and the thought of fairies and Puck skipped through her mind. _

_"I'm giving you two seconds to put the girl back in the crib." Good; her voice was steady and commanding._

_He hesitated, eyes pleading. The girl began to fuss. _

_One._

_Two._

_Mary fired. _

_He fell backwards, blood pooling from his forehead, just above and between the eyes. Dead._

_Blood splattered onto the wall behind him, and a bear fell from a shelf behind him. Stuffing popped out of its chest, and the little girl screamed and rolled off of the body, wriggling in the blankets._

_Mary ran._

Mary's heart rate increased again. A sudden warm, flowing sensation caused her to focus on her left arm. Ah. Blood. Janine had shot her through the arm, missing arteries and major veins but leaving a good-sized wound. The sudden spike in her heart rate had caused the blood to flow more readily. She felt her child move in her stomach. She needed to calm down, needed to focus.

She pictured home, with John, and envisioned him and Sherlock finding the clues that would lead them to her and –

Wait, where was Molly? Not in this room, certainly. Breathing evenly, looking for more clues around the room, out the window, in the sounds of the house where she was held - she tried to remember what had happened, where she was, where Molly was, and what she was going to do about it.

She let out a little huff of air, and grimaced. She didn't need this – not now, ready to pop – but she could do this. She'd been in much worse scrapes, before.

* * *

After Mary was shot in the arm, Molly quickly took the pill offered her, and though she fought it, could not stop her eyes from drooping and her breathing from becoming the even rise and fall of sleep.

Molly woke up in a similar fashion. Before she opened her eyes, she noticed her wrists were bound loosely to the chair she was sitting in – padded, relatively comfortable, attached to the floor somehow. The room was rocking slightly – but she couldn't tell if that was a side effect of the pill or if the room was _actually_ rocking. Slowly, slowly, her eyes crept open. When the images in the room began to focus, she started, and her eyes flew open, fully alert.

She was in her father's study.

Sort of.

There was his chair – old, leather, worn and stained on one arm where Molly had sat, perched, next to him as he read to her.

His desk – yes – with the old green and brass lamp in the corner, and his things spread across it – organized chaos.

She looked at the shelves in the room – yes, his books, and on the wall – her childish, primary-school artwork, ribbons from the science fair, a copy of her degree, her doctorate, pictures of them all – himself, her mother, Molly. She swallowed as she craned her neck to look around the room. It _was_ her father's study, but it also _wasn't_. There were the large drapes that had covered the windows, but…they pooled on the floor. The walls were too short. And the spacing was off…everything was too close together.

She heard the muffled sound of an engine in the distance, getting closer. As it passed by, the room began to rock again. Ah. Not a side effect of the pills.

Looking around again, Molly realized that she was probably on the boat she'd helped Sherlock discover yesterday. Or was it two days ago? She wasn't sure. If there were any windows in the room, they were covered. Craning her neck again, she could just make out the familiar rounded-rectangle shape of a door behind her. Twisting around again, she bit her lip, and searched the room with her eyes for anything she could use to escape.

She must have been deep in thought, because she didn't notice the sound of the door opening behind her. She did notice the rush of air, though, and turned quickly to see. A man, unknown, brought in a tray with…coffee? Biscuits? And placed it on the side table, near her father's armchair. He did not even look at her, and quickly left.

A moment later, the door opened again, and this time, Molly could guess as to who was entering.

"Molly! I _told_ you we'd have coffee soon. I even remember how you like it – two sugars, one and a half creamers, yes? Sorry, no real cream today – profits have been a little slim the past few years, and this little ensemble" – he spread his arms, gesturing to everything that had been stolen from her father's study – "took some time and effort to accumulate." James Moriarty let his arms fall to his side, and strode into the room, limping only slightly, and settled himself in her father's armchair.

Her. Father's. Armchair.

Molly gritted her teeth, watching him, refusing to speak.

Jim smiled at her, the distortion and pull of his lips slowly spreading across his whole face, and she was reminded of the _Grinch_, in the children's cartoon, when he had an awful idea – a wonderful, awful idea. "We have quite a lot to discuss, Molls."

* * *

Sherlock stared at the note as he and John caught a cab. Mycroft had made a call, and they'd looked at the CCTV footage from the hotel's surveillance system. No Jim, no Janine – just the old woman taking her seat an hour before Sherlock and John arrived, Irene leaving her room, waiting, talking with them – and a man, bringing the little boy in through the kitchen service door in the alley, and pushing him into the tea room, then leaving.

They'd watched the full 24 hours, and caught Jim leaving the hotel yesterday. He must have met with Irene the day before. He walked, with a limp, but he did walk. One hand stayed curled by his side, though he was able to hold it up to hail a cab. And then they'd realized who'd been driving it.

Janine.

Lestrade confirmed that there were no signs of forced entry to John and Mary's flat – and Kate Hudson confirmed that they had never returned there, anyways.

So they were taken, from St. Bart's. A man had been killed outside the hospital roughly an hour ago – sniper fire – and Mycroft's men had found both the agents assigned to Mary and Molly and a homeless woman dead nearby.

Witnesses said they saw the women leave in a cab, and one had even gotten a part of the license plate. They were tracking the cab now.

Sherlock sat, staring at the replica of the Woman's phone, texts open. Now – now was the time to engage Jim in his game.

_Destroying me, by destroying the people who matter to me. – SH_

_As if that would work. – SH_

_I will find them, and win your pathetic game. -SH_

He pressed send, and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

**Bravo, Sherlock. –JM**

**But see, I had to force your hand. Not fun, when you're not playing the way I like you to. – JM**

**But, since you guessed correctly, I'll tell you where evidence against Chuck Milverton can be found. Safe Deposit Box 1283 at the Bank of London. I keep all my valuables there. ****J**** - JM**

**The game's just started, though. - JM**

**So what will it be, fire or ice? – JM**

Sherlock forwarded the information on Milverton to his brother (it was unimportant to him, now), and sat thinking. Fire and ice, fire and ice – how could his world end in ice? Fire – fire was obvious, Jim liked to blow things up, but ice? Ice didn't make sense. He couldn't very well _freeze_ Sherlock.

And what had he meant – two if by land, one if by sea? That was wrong, anyways. The original poem was one if by land, two if by sea. He frowned and pressed his fingertips together. John sat staring out the window beside him, hands balled into angry fists, lips tense.

* * *

Irene Adler, completely and entirely Abigail Norton once again, held her little boy on her lap and stared out the large glass windows at the planes taxiing and taking off from the landing strip. They were to board shortly, and she never planned to return to England again.

She stared down at her son, sleeping soundly. She supposed she should be thankful that Jim had not done anything to him – no poison or torture, physical or psychological. Just fright, and loneliness, and a little neglect.

But of course Jim would know that if he'd harmed one hair on her son's head, she would have taken him down with Sherlock in a heartbeat. She'd have killed him herself.

But he had kept his end of his sick little bargain, and so she kept hers. It pained her, to leave Sherlock in the midst of one of Jim's games, especially when she had helped to trap him in it. Jim had clearly explained her part in the whole thing, though – if she could convince him that she did not matter most to Sherlock, and get him to reveal whom he _did_ care about, then she and her son would be free to leave.

So she convinced him. She'd done a rather marvelous job, in her own (not so) humble opinion. And she really had tried to help him out, with the honey. She frowned.

One thing she knew about Sherlock was that he certainly was no genius when it came to emotions – they were foreign and easily misunderstood. She could tell, though, that he was beginning to feel. He just wasn't good at expressing it, yet. Sort of like Will. And if he was not used to controlling them, not used to their affect on his body, on his mind…

She smiled down at her sleeping son, but uneasiness for Sherlock pressed on her heart. Sighing, shaking her head, before she could regret it – she sent him one last text.

Then she dropped her phone on the floor, ground into the screen with a perfectly aimed heel, and kicked it beneath a row of uncomfortable plastic seats before hoisting her son in her arms and boarding the plane for D.C.

* * *

Sherlock's chin had sank into his chest, barely noticing the jostling of his body as the cab he and John occupied raced to take them to the cab Mary and Molly had occupied. His fingers drummed impatiently on his knees.

"John, tell me what you thought of Jim's message."

John had been pressing his knuckles into his teeth, elbow propped against the cab door, staring out the window. When Sherlock spoke, he carefully placed his hands in his lap, tendons straining in his arms. "He's mad, Sherlock. Completely mad. I don't – I don't know. Mary-"

"Mary will be fine, John. In case you've forgotten, she's had years of experience in this sort of situation."

John clenched his jaw. "She's _pregnant_ now, Sherlock – in case _you've_ forgotten – and even you should know that pregnancy sort of _prevents_ women from – say – escaping prisons and shimmying down drain pipes and-"

"It won't prevent her from shooting anyone."

"And where do think she's going to get a gun, Sherlock? Mmm?" John glared at his friend, hating this – hating that his wife had been taken – hating that Molly was in trouble, too and – he made a strangled sort of noise in his throat – Molly Hooper – how on earth could she possibly fight back against Jim? Or Janine?

Suddenly, John looked beyond his own feelings – at Sherlock's face - and did a little deducing of his own.

"You're worried, too, aren't you?" And John paled, because the only time he'd ever seen Sherlock worried – fidgety, anxious - was when he was preparing to let John go – preparing to give him away to Mary – at the wedding. Sherlock was preparing to let someone go.

"No!" John roared, and struck the window of the cab with his fist. Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. I know it's hard, yeah? To know Jim has people you care about. You do care about them, and you care about me – you _care, _Sherlock, and that's hard – but you're going to deal with that feeling, not turn it off. Think – think – it's motivation, yeah? You care about them, you'll find them. You're going to find Mary and Molly, and then you can go back to being a cold machine – but now, you need to just feel it, let it out, turn it into motivation, and refocus that brilliant mind of yours. So do it."

Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "A what machine?"

John's mouth opened in disbelief, but he recognized that look on Sherlock's face – the look of gears meshing, of pieces sliding into position – and so he refrained from berating him, and repeated himself instead. "A _cold_ machine."

"Ice – fire and ice -" Sherlock leveled his bright gaze on John. Yes – this was better – John felt a little knot in his stomach release – Sherlock was into the game again – focused. "John, tell me – fire and ice – what do they represent? Tell me about the poem. Forget about Jim, tell me about the poem."

John swallowed. "Fire – um, yeah – explosions, I guess, maybe another bomb-"

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "I said _forget_ about Jim. Tell me about the _poem_. Pretend this is a piece of poetry you need to analyze in some horrid entry-level uni class. What do the fire and ice _represent_?"

John nodded, slowly, realizing what Sherlock was getting at. "Fire – fire is passion – in love, maybe, yeah – it can burn you? Fire is passion, and if you don't control it, it can end everything – you go to far, too fast – flames, sparks, I guess, metaphors used in love a lot. So, you can choose to end your world in fire-"

"-by choosing to submit to my emotions and feelings and sentimental tendencies and ruining myself if someone I love is killed."

John studied Sherlock's face, and continued. "And ice…ice is the lack of passion. It's the opposite. It's…cold, uncaring, detached…"

"…and not loving anyone or anything. A 'frozen heart', if you excuse the terribly cliché metaphor. Obviously I choose ice."

John's face softened as he realized Jim's game. Jim wanted to destroy Sherlock, but he'd realized he could do that in one of two ways – by outright, deliberately killing the people Sherlock cared about – or by allowing Sherlock to save them and push them all away on his own. "Sherlock…I know we're talking about the bigger picture here…saving Mary and Molly, first…but you _do_ realize that choosing ice is just as destructive as choosing fire? Maybe you don't have to choose…I mean, love – loving – you can love someone, you know, without going up in flames. You-"

He was interrupted when Sherlock's phone received a text.

_You've given Jim everything he needs – but I've given you all you need, too, Sherlock. Think. Good luck, darling. And thanks for your help. – xo_

And so Sherlock thought – he had to choose ice, obviously. He would hurt his friends after he'd saved them, push them away, if that would keep Jim away from them. It would be painful, obviously – that was the point here, but if he could save them first, he knew he could deal with that aspect later.

So he sent his reply to Jim.

_Ice. Obviously. – SH_

He then returned to the Woman's text. No…not THE Woman anymore…just a woman. A woman who had bested him, and that had made her attractive, and so he saved her, and then…then she had used him to save her son. He wasn't bitter, he just…saw everything in startling clarity, now.

He and Irene Adler were far too much alike. Both ice – cold, calculating, minds with frozen hearts that had begun to thaw around the same time. He could never love her – and she could never truly love him. They made each other colder and sharper, and he realized that while he did feel...a thrill, being around her, it was the anxious, competitive kind. It wasn't the same low, warm thrill in his stomach he got when he was around people like….No. Stop it. He and Irene. Focus on her text.

They _were_ connected, he and Irene – they did _care_ about each other. She'd sent him a hint…he needed to use it to save what mattered most to him, now.

So, what had she given him?

Words, tea, honey, the note from her son, with honey –

And Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat, a smug smirk beginning to form on his face.

"What? What've you figured out?" John asked.

"The honey, John! The – Mrs. Norton – she kept emphasizing the honey – honey in the tea, honey from – Sussex. Honey on the note, this note!"

He frowned and sighed. "How foolish of me – of _course_ – idiot – Janine _said_ she'd gotten a place in Sussex, might start to keep bees – I should have remembered-"

And he grinned again – "Of course! Two hiding places – land – Janine's bees – and the boat – at 'sea' – two if by land, one if by sea." He smirked at John. "We can save _two_ if by land, _one_ if by sea. Mary – she's pregnant – that's two – she's with Janine on land – in Sussex. Molly – she's one – she's on the boat with Jim."

John nodded sharply. "Right. So, we are going to save them both."

Sherlock stared at John. "Of course."

"So we have to…split up?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not. Jim would see that coming, and then where would we be? No, we stay together – we save Mary and the baby first, and then Molly, obviously. We've already been looking for the boat these past two days – someone's sure to have gotten a lead by now – so we focus on the honey, and signs from the cab they were picked up in, and find the place in Sussex where Mary is being kept. If Molly hasn't been located by the time Mary is free, then we find her."

Sherlock's other phone buzzed with a text from Jim.

**Ooh, goody! –JM**

**Excellent choice, Sherlock. – JM**

**Tell me where the girls are, and I'll let you save one of them. – JM**

John frowned as he looked at the text. "Sherlock-"

"Plan hasn't changed, John. Mary first, then Molly." He looked away from John as he said this, because he'd also realized Jim's game. Jim expected him to die – perhaps literally, definitely metaphorically – because Jim believes that he can't save both girls, and that he'll either die because of his _emotions_ – fire – or he'll close himself off to emotions entirely and die to his remaining friends because he will become an Ice Man, just like his brother…

But what Jim didn't know was that Sherlock expected this, and the Scotland Yard was already hunting down his little boat.

As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock leapt out and a few quick strides took him past police tape and to the cab that had taken Mary and Molly. It had obviously been driven here and dumped by an employee of Jim's. He quickly analyzed the cab – yes, three woman, look at the position of the driver's seat, John, there's blood – only a minor flesh wound from a gunshot to the arm, nothing to worry about, John – he looked at their handbags and phones - took samples from the seats, windows, tires, exhaust pipe – and they were off to Bart's.

* * *

Mary was working quietly, shifting minutely, working the ropes that bound her up and down her arms, stretching them, finding a weak point. She was also using her forefinger and thumb to scratch the bobby pin from her hair across the seat, shaping it into a sharp instrument.

She paused when she felt a cramp in her abdomen. No. Couldn't be.

She continued working, careful to use the arm that was not injured to prevent herself from loosing more blood.

About fifteen minutes later, another cramp – a tightening of her muscles – slightly stronger – a little painful – No.

"Not now, sweet pea. Not yet." Mary pleaded silently with her little girl. "Mama's working, right now."

* * *

Mike Stamford let the two men into the lab, and in no time at all, Sherlock had analyzed everything in the samples from the car and the honey. Janine was staying in a cottage – she'd told him that – and from the samples, Sherlock deduced that it was located near the cliffs, near a farm that used a particular sort of pesticide to protect its produce, and south of a more established beekeeper. Using all of the facts to triangulate a location, Sherlock was able to text Jim the rough area that Janine's little 'cottage' was located in.

**Congratulations! -JM**

**You're going after the pregnant one, then. –JM**

**Oh, Molly will be so glad to hear it. – JM**

**She's such an angel, Sherlock. –JM**

Sherlock's jaw tightened at Jim's text. Of course he'd tell Molly. He felt the tightness in his jaw travel down into his chest and settle there, and he wanted to tell Molly – of course I'm saving them first, two lives – two! – but I'm saving you, too, Molly – Scotland Yard and Agent Conners are on their way – but he couldn't tell her that. He hoped, just a little, that she knew – but of course she'd know – Molly Hooper always knew.

He didn't reply to Jim's text, and he and John were on their way to a little cottage in Sussex Downs to save John's wife and baby girl.

* * *

Jim smiled up at Molly. He'd spent the past hour questioning her about Sherlock's suicide, his mission, his relationships, and explaining his game – explaining how he was going to destroy Sherlock, how Sherlock had chosen to die by ice, how Sherlock had to choose between saving Mary and Molly –

And then Sherlock's text came. Jim read it, smiled, and replied.

He looked up at her, grinning. "He chose Mary!"

Molly smiled, sadly. She knew Sherlock would save Mary. It was logical, after all. Two lives, as opposed to one. It was just…nice, in a strange way, to know she'd counted enough to him to be ranked with John and Mary. And there was still a chance, you know. She wasn't dead yet.

Jim tsked, his face a mask of pity. "So sad, Molly. You do know why he chose Mary, don't you?"

Molly pressed her lips into a thin line and jiggled her leg, just a bit. She had to pee. After the water from earlier, and coffee with Jim – he'd untied one of her hands, and she did drink some – he drank it too, and he insisted - it was funny, really – you'd think she'd be more upset over the whole knowing she was going to die soon thing, but all she could think about was the fact that she had to pee. Badly. She at least wanted her bladder to be comfortable, before she died. She snorted just a bit, at that though.

Jim ignored her. "It's not because he's saving two people, Molly. It's because he _loves_ you more, and that scares him."

Molly rolled her eyes. "He doesn't _love_ me, Jim. I just count, that's all."

Jim laughed, long and loud, and ended it in a fit of barking, glaring at her. "Silly, stupid girl. You were listening to his meeting with Irene! He prefers long hair, he was glad you'd moved on from Tom – he notices you - he _loves_ you. He loves you, he loves you not, he loves you, he loves you not –he loves you!" He threw papers from her father's desk, and books from the shelves, as he chanted the old rhyme. He shook his head sadly at her. "That's why I was so pleased he chose ice. It extends the game. He thinks he can save you both – of course he does! – but he can't. He can't, Molly Hooper. So he saved Mary first because he knows that if he failed to save you – if he lost – he wouldn't be able to focus enough to save her, and he'd never forgive himself for losing both of you. So he's saving her first so he can put all his energy into saving _you_, without worrying about anyone else."

He sat perched on the edge of her father's desk, swinging his feet back and forth like a child on a park bench. "He _loves_ you." He beamed at her. "And to think, I missed it, the last time around!"

He leaned conspiratorially close to her. "I was so pleased when he killed Magnusson, Molly. So _pleased_. Because who gave me the list of people to place snipers on? Magnusson. And who failed to include you on that list? Magnusson. Sherlock did me a great favor, taking that failure out of my life. Janine's much better at this whole thing. Much, much better."

* * *

Janine sat in the parlor, with a table set with tea for three, when Sherlock and John arrived. She beamed at them from across the room, and stood up to receive them.

"Welcome! John, Sherl."

"Where's Mary?"

Janine laughed, lightly. "Oh, you waste no time in getting to the point, do you, John? But all in good time. She's fine, for now. If you go charging around looking for her, however, there's no telling what could happen. Jim's got a fancy with explosives, if you haven't noticed. Sit, first. Care for some tea?"

The two men sat, hesitantly, but neither moved to pick up their freshly poured cups. "We've actually just had some, courtesy of Jim. Thank you, though. Your hospitality is charming."

"Of course, Sherl. Had to be. I was going to be entertaining the one person who ever bested James Moriarty."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What a disappointment that must have been to you."

Janine's brow puckered, but her smile remained frozen on her face. "Not at all, Sherl. He didn't disappoint me. _You_ did."

She leaned forwards, eyes fiery. "You didn't play fair, Sherlock. You were supposed to die, that day. And Jim and I, we would've continued our business and been extremely rich and powerful and _invisible_, just the way we preferred it. But you had to go and tempt Jim into playing _games_, and you ruined everything."

"Wait a minute – _our_ business? You're not – _together_?" John asked incredulously, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Janine laughed prettily. "Oh, John. What? Molly thought he was attractive. Is it that hard to think I found him a little cute?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They're cousins, John. Not lovers."

Janine raised her eyebrows, pleased. "Bravo, Sherl! And here I thought you hadn't noticed. See the family resemblance, did you?"

"That, and he could have chosen any of my cases, any of our past interactions to create his alias – Richard Brooks, _Reichenbach_. Convenient, but not just for the sake of the name of the painting – he'd already had an identity as Richard Brooks, at one point. It wasn't that hard to resurrect that identity. You never bothered to change your last name."

She smiled. "Never had the need. Brooks is a common enough last name – ask your brother."

He smiled at her, his own lips pulled into a grin as false as her own. "Enough stalling, Janine. What do we need to do to get Mary back? We have a boat to catch."

Janine smirked – "Like that, did you? I knew the traveling bolt-hole would throw you off, a bit."

"You should know that the authorities are on their way to Jim's boat, right now. The game is nearly over, Janine. You've lost, again."

"Not quite, love." Janine leaned over to a strange-looking remote – it looked like junk, a silly, clunky thing, with only one button on it – and pressed it, once, firmly.

* * *

Cameron Vingren was bored. He'd been staring at this map of the electrical input and output of England for hours now. It was his job, so still he stared, but he couldn't help his mind wandering off to what his wife was cooking him for dinner tonight. He sighed, imagining roast chicken with slightly crispy skin, and mashed potatoes, and carrots and soup and bread and –

He blinked, then blinked again. He tapped the screen in front of him, and immediately began to search through records and find the source of the error in front of him. It had to be an error. No way the entirety of Sussex was down…

He shook his head, and called for his supervisor. "Blank spot on the map, sir…all of Sussex is off the map."

He looked behind him, and noticed another man, in a dark suit and earpiece, watching the screen as well.

"Hey, you're not - "

The man gave him a cool stare, then turned on his heel and left the room, placing a call as he did so.

"Sussex, sir. Point of origin 50o 55' N, 00.05o W. Shall we send reinforcements?"

He listened attentively for a moment. "Yes sir. We'll send the Conner girl. Of course."

* * *

Molly jiggled her leg. She was getting desperate – desperate for a bathroom. "Uh, Jim…not that you care…"

He looked up at her expectantly.

"…but I really, really have to use the loo. If you have one. Or I could just go on your chair here. Just wanted to let you know."

Jim smiled at her. "Good Golly, Miss Molly, I'm no fool, but I'm also not _dirty._ Of course you can use the loo. Celia!" He shouted.

A woman came in, gun trained on Molly, and untied her. Molly stood on shaky legs, and calmly allowed Celia to show her to the toilet.

* * *

Sherlock and John looked around the room after Janine had pressed the button. "Nothing happened," John stated dryly.

Janine smiled sweetly. "Of course it did, dear. Take out your phones."

The men did, and try as they might, the phones did not turn on. Sherlock attempted to flip the light switch on the wall, to no avail.

"With any luck, the entirety of southern England is off the technological map, loves. Of course, Jim chose my little retirement spot for a reason." She smiled brightly at them.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why on earth would you do that? Now all of Jim's explosives are inactive. We could simply overpower you and rescue Mary, and be on our way."

Janine smiled. "Oh, you could. But then you'd never have a chance in hell of saving Molly."

Sherlock stared at her. "And why is that?"

Janine laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. Did you really think Jim would be foolish enough to use a boat with a leaky engine?" She laughed again. "And now you can't even call your reinforcements to change the direction of their fruitless hunt."

Sherlock stiffened, then strode so that he towered over her, their toes practically touching. "Where are they?"

Janine smiled. "Oh, Sherl. I'd tell you, but I don't know myself. In fact, Jim's put the responder for their tracker in my tooth-" she tapped on her front left incisor -

John gaped at her in horror.

"- which I was quite put out over, I assure you, but it can't be helped. _I'm _certainly not going to knock my own tooth out. And I know that the two of _you_ aren't going to be able to hit me hard enough to do so. You'll try, admirably, I'm sure, but you're still men, and even _Sherlock_ is too chivalrous to punch me in the mouth hard enough to knock out my tooth."

"Maybe so, but _I'm_ sure as hell not," came a disgruntled female voice from the opposite side of the wall. Janine turned her head, surprised, and her pretty face met with the hard, angry fist of Mary Watson.

* * *

Of course they tried to disengage the 'killswitch' – that's what John called the remote, and it stuck – but to no avail. There was only one button, and apparently, it only turned things _off_.

Mary had admirable aim, and Janine's tooth was out in no time. She'd also done a bang-up job of bloodying Janine's nose and was not exactly gentle when restraining her. John had wanted to take over, noticing the blood through the makeshift bandage on her arm – but she glared at him, muttered something about it being a 'scratch', and a 'clean shot', and that she needed to vent some of her anger on Janine before she punched _them _in the face for taking so bloody long to get there. She winced and held her large belly, breathing deeply through her nose and mouth.

"Well, boys, we have two problems. One – finding Molly. Two – finding a bloody hospital. I think this girl is coming, whether I like it or not."

* * *

Sherlock growled in frustration. Of course he could try to make it outside the killswitch zone, wherever that was, but there was no way to tell _where_ that was – of course the authorities were on their way _here_, too, but what if the automobiles stopped the moment they crossed the line?

There was only one option – he needed to leave on foot.

Too slow.

Ah.

They were in Sussex, still fairly rural – and surely someone had a horse. Or a bicycle.

But Mary was in labor and the authorities weren't here, yet. He looked at John, eyes determined and face stony.

John inclined his head towards the door. "Out then, mate. Go find Molly. I've got this," he inclined his head back towards his pregnant wife and a tied-up Janine, "under control." He gave him a small smile.

Sherlock smirked, and gripped John's arm, tightly, in thanks. "Good luck with that. And congratulations, by the way."

John grinned at him. "Yeah, yeah. You just better hope those 'authorities' get here soon. I was _not_ planning on delivering my own child."

* * *

It actually took a shorter amount of time than Sherlock thought it would to steal a horse and thunder his way across the countryside. True to his prediction, everything that had anything remotely to do with electricity, or batteries, was out of order. Cars sat stalled in the roads, and stupid citizens walked around, attempting to find some sort of signal for mobiles that wouldn't even turn on.

He grinned when he saw a lorry trudging along in the distance. Jim's little killswitch didn't have nearly the range he thought it did. He pulled the horse up, tied it to a nearby fence, and flagged the lorry down.

Sitting shotgun, he immediately pulled the broken tooth out of his pocket and studied it. There was a tracker – tiny, almost imperceptible – imbedded in the tooth. Careful, careful – he pried it out – and – yes! He smirked in triumph. It was the same type he'd taken to Sarah Jane, so many cases, so many months ago. He could remember how to use his phone to connect them – yes – there!

He didn't stop the grin from spreading across his face as the blinking tracker showed up on his screen. He'd found Molly.

* * *

Janine awoke with throbbing lips, throbbing gums, throbbing nose – everything throbbing. She tested the place where her tooth had been with her tongue, and choked a bit on some blood. Spitting, she looked around. Still in her cottage – and there were Mary and her husband. Mary was walking around, breathing strangely, face dotted with perspiration. Ah – in labor. John was alternating between looking out the windows – probably for the coppers – and talking to his wife in low, soothing tones. Mary's makeshift bandage on her arm had been replaced with a proper one from the first aid kit in the kitchen. Probably John's handiwork.

Janine looked around for Sherlock – not here. She waited, listening – no, not here. She began laughing wildly, occasionally choking on her own spit and blood.

"Shut up," John said, glaring forcefully at her. "Shut _up_. Why are you laughing? You've lost. The game is over."

Cackling, she grinned at him, her mouth and lips smeared with blood. "No, it's not, John. No it's not. Because-" and she was laughing again – "because I altered that tracker."

John stared at her, confused.

"I know that little 'killswitch' didn't black out all of southern England. We – Jim and I – we both knew the battery was only powerful enough to black out an area of a few square kilometers. So he planted the tracker on me – it lets him know when Sherlock's getting close, as well as leading Sherlock to Jim. But Jim - Jim's messed with me for the last time, love. I've always been his partner, his closest ally - but imagine my surprise when I lost a whole day once, a year ago! Didn't take me long to figure out that he'd planted a _tracker_ in my tooth. The nerve!" She shook her head. "And you know, ever since getting involved with Sherlock, he's lost sight of our true reason for doing this. For being criminals. He's gotten so obsessed with the game, he's actually _given parts of our business _away to Sherlock! Unbelievable!" She snarled.

"So I had it altered. Jim's always been the one to handle the explosives – he'd never suspect that I've been paying attention all this time. Blackmail, psychology – that's more my speed. Explosions were always too messy. But I paid attention, I did. And the second that tracker crosses the killswitch line, the second it comes online – it arms a bomb on Jim's boat. The boat he's actually on."

John's face drooped, eyes darting around, mouth agape, as he realized what Janine was implying.

She laughed, wildly, again. "The closer Sherlock gets to _saving_ Molly, the closer he gets to _blowing her up_. As soon as he's within a hundred meters of the boat – KABOOM! And you can't even warn him, because we're _inside_ the killswitch zone…"

Her laughter was cut off by John's face connecting with her fist.

He stared at his fist, afterwards, horrified.

Mary snorted, and her face distorted in time with another contraction. When it passed, she wheezed - "Don't worry about it, love. She had it coming. You could work on your form, though. That probably hurt you more than it hurt her."

* * *

Sherlock had stolen a boat. It was junk – old and dirty and its white paint had faded to the same brackish gray colour of the water and strangely enough, sky, today - and the engine sputtered angrily when he got it started – but it was easily stolen - _ commandeered, _he corrected himself, he would return it – and he was closing in on Jim and Molly. He smirked, pride rising in his chest. He squinted down at the phone in his hands, staying the course.

He'd phoned Lestrade and his brother, told them about everything – John and Mary in Sussex, himself currently on the way to rescue Molly and confront Jim, with backup on the way.

His face was set in grim determination as he made his way up the river, coat and curls flapping dramatically in the breeze.

* * *

Sarah Jane and crew (of course Jo was there, too – of _course_) arrived at the house in Sussex approximately forty minutes later. It took Sarah approximately fifteen to disarm the killswitch, and everything – electricity, radio, phone – came back online.

John helped his wife into an ambulance, told Agent Long about the bombs in the boat, and texted Sherlock.

He hoped Sherlock had been held up somehow – that he hadn't found them yet. He knew Sherlock would never forgive himself, if Molly died like this.

* * *

Sherlock spotted Jim's boat – yes, it was definitely his – when he felt his phone vibrate, twice, quickly, in succession. Two texts. One from Jim, an hour ago, and one from John, recent.

He looked at the first – from Jim, sent an hour ago:

"_You don't die of a broken heart – you only wish you did. – Marilyn Peterson_

He snorted. Ridiculous. He certainly wouldn't be wishing he was dead anytime soon. In fact, having rescued Mary and about to confront Jim, he had never felt more alive. He slowed the boat as he approached, looking for signs of life on the boat. He knew Molly was still alive, knew that Jim would somehow want to use her to get to Sherlock, once Jim realized Sherlock was here.

Really, it had been a stupid plan, to use the killswitch. Janine hadn't been able to tell Jim she'd lost. Now, Sherlock had the advantage of being unexpected.

It was entirely unexpected when the boat in front of him exploded before his eyes.

* * *

**Wow! Okay, so that was a really fun chapter.**

**Please let me know if it was confusing, or if I should change any parts around to make it easier to follow. **

**Also, I'm already done with the next chapter, but...I'm not going to post it until I finish chapter 17 as well, because...well...just because. Trust me. You'll want to read both of them together, or else throttle me. :) **

**Please review. **

**Thanks!**


	16. In Which Sherlock Falls Like A Sparrow

**Okay, so many thanks to my loyal readers and commenters! Thank you to Einvine, miischall, keeptheotherone, and to lovebirds413, who pointed out a small plot hole around Mary's gunshot wound from Chapter 15 that I've since corrected. **

**Thank you!**

**Inspiration for some of this boat scene was taken from "A Monstrous Regiment of Women" by Laurie R King. If you like the idea of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes marrying a young, Jewish-American woman after retiring to Sussex, you should read those books. They're funny and very good mysteries. If you hate that idea…forget I mentioned them. **

**Information on Great Sparrows was accumulated from various google searches and Wikipedia. **

**When you get to the end of this chapter, just keep reading. Just keep reading, reading, reading. What do you do? You read, read, read! (Chapter 17, that is).**

**Of course I don't own the stuff I don't own (namely, Sherlock, and google, and Wikipedia, and "A Monstrous Regiment of Women). **

_Chapter 16, In Which Sherlock Falls Like a Sparrow_

Sparrows are common creatures. They have lived in close proximity to humans in nearly all areas of the world for over 10,000 years. Most are remarkably social, and also remarkably like humans in their mating rituals and relationships. They enjoy fleeting connections, and then move on to the next without a qualm. They surround themselves with similar birds and enjoy loud, noisy gatherings with lots of food and physical affection.

The one exception to this is the _Passer motitensis_ – the Great Sparrow. Great Sparrows choose a mate for life, and never leave them. They choose to stay in small family groups for the majority of their lives, and never take part in the larger aggregations of birds around them. Great Sparrows surround themselves with a few, select friends and family members, and this satisfies them for life.

Once, when he was a child – the summer after losing Redbeard - Sherlock's father attempted to take him bird-watching. He gathered up the binoculars and books and a picnic lunch and took him to the meadow near their home. Sherlock scowled and pouted the whole way there, and made comments about the foolishness of looking for species that were already cataloged and studied. Looking for a new species – that might have some merit – but watching birds that were already widely known? Ridiculous.

Sherlock's father was not fazed. He was used to irritable boys and ignored Sherlock's scathing rebukes, and told a story about the lives of birds and how one could learn quite a lot by watching them. One of the stories he told was of the Great Sparrow, and how he was confident that Sherlock was certainly not one of the common sparrows of the world, but a Great Sparrow. He did not love easily, but once he did, it would be for life. He would never enjoy the company of dozens of friends, but that was all right, as long as he had a few, select people he trusted and cared for enough to love.

* * *

The colorful, startling memory of that day came, unbidden to Sherlock, as the damp wind pushed against his coat and curls on the deck of the boat he had stolen in an attempt to save Molly Hooper. The boat was stalled, the wave from the exploding vessel dousing the already weak engine, and debris floated past in gray water that mirrored the same color of the sky.

If there were anyone around to witness his expression, they'd have seen his brow furrowed, his mouth open, and a look of forlorn confusion alternating with one of desperate searching.

His hands began to tremble as he saw a body in the water, face down –not Molly – but it was – male, height, weight, hair – it would need to be confirmed, of course, but the man in the water could very well be Jim. This ruled out the possibility that Janine had misled him. Sherlock felt no relief, no joy, no satisfaction.

His eyes scanned the water for a woman – long brown hair, hideous green jumper, tiny – feet, hands, lips, tiny – everything - but found nothing.

Nothing was good.

But oh – a shoe. A shoe, right there, in the water, floating next to his boat – he could reach it, if he wanted to – but he could tell from here – it was Molly's shoe. The wear of the laces and the discolouration where she dropped bleach one day, when he (accidentally) snuck up on her and she screamed.

But a shoe, without a foot – there was still hope, yes?

He calculated the probability of her survival (less than a 20% chance if she was unbound, less than a 10% chance if bound) and attempted to rework the figures, once, twice – and then, halfway through the third recalculation, memories came to him, and he did nothing to fight their parade, eyes staring vacantly at the spot where Molly Hooper had been held hostage. There was nothing left but a quickly sinking, flaming heap of wreckage.

Was this feeling fire, or ice?

_The first time he remembers not deleting her is when she's gotten him access to a body quickly and easily for the third time. It's not the first time he's met her – he can't remember the first time he met her, because he'd deleted it long ago – but it's the first time he's decided not to delete her, because she works quietly and quickly and lets him do what he wants, and so he needs to remember who she is for next time. For __all__ the 'next times'. He knows she's a doctor, and she's one of the youngest lead pathologists at the hospital, so she knows her stuff. She also has a steady hand and a ready admiration of him, and she's useful, and he doesn't delete her, because Dr. Hooper is relatively intelligent and trustworthy, at least when it comes to the lab and the morgue_.

Sherlock swallowed and blinked rapidly as the sound of the choking motor sputtered out _Mol-ly's dead. Mol-ly's dead._

Whatever this was, that he was feeling – it was worse than loosing Redbeard. Worse than leaving London, after the fall. Worse than the feeling of John punching him in the face after returning to London. Much, much worse.

_He remembers growing accustomed to her presence, and her help, and then he remembers the first time he thought he might have lost her. It's standing outside of the Carl Powers pool, and he tries to pretend the twisting in his stomach is just hunger, but he knows now it was worry for his pathologist. Mycroft had taken her in, in the end, and she'd been safe – Jim had seen the way Sherlock had treated her, and thought she was not important to Sherlock, and so she was no more important to Jim than the hostages in the vest bombs – but he still feels a little sick, a little guilty, at not recognizing, not deducing who Jim was, when he first met him in the lab with Molly. And it's not his fault she dated the psychopath, so he won't apologize, but he does want to offer her some form of comfort, because she is the best person he's ever worked with, outside of John. He realizes that she is valuable – Molly Hooper is valuable._

_He doesn't expect her to stand up to him, the first time he sees her after the Jim debacle. But she does, and she calls him out quite clearly on letting her date a madman. He's underestimated her. She's got a point – several points – and he realizes he respects her for them. He respects Molly Hooper. So he admits Jim fooled him too, and she accepts it as the gift it is, and they go back to their awkward (on her part) easy (on his part) working relationship. _

Sherlock's breathing became labored as the slap of the waves on the bow of the boat beat out the pattern – _Mol-ly's dead. Mol-ly's dead. _

_He also remembers the first time he hurt her – truly, deeply hurt her – that Christmas at his flat. He knew she was attracted to him – many women were attracted to him – but he hadn't known her affection for him was that strong. He hadn't expected her dress, her present – everything – all of her sweet, unassuming love and admiration – to be misplaced on him. His stomach turns as he realizes how cruel his words had been, coming from the source of her attentions. Because Molly Hooper is innocent, and good, and loyal, and hurting her is akin to hurting … Mrs. Hudson or…something else that is innocent and loyal and good. Hurting her is wicked, and Sherlock knows he's an arse but he's never intentionally wicked or cruel, but this time, he was wicked AND cruel. But she stands up to him again, and his heart does a neat little trick in his chest at her words, and he wants to apologize because he realizes he cares about her. He cares about Molly Hooper – not just for her physical safety, but for her emotional well-being as well. _

Next came memories of working in the lab, her compassion as he identifies Irene's fake body at the morgue, more memories and conversations and then comes the game changer – the time when she saw him the lab.

And he struggled against it, because he's still not sure what he's feeling – fire or ice – because it's both, burning and cold and he's trying to catalog his reactions but he can't – because it doesn't make sense; it's not logical – _he chose ice, so why would Jim blow Molly up, and himself with her?_ - his defenses are down with this shock to his system, and the memory comes anyway.

_She sees his sadness, and confronts him about it. He stills, panicked, for a split second, because if she can see how desperate he is, how could anyone else miss it? But then he remembers that she is his pathologist, that she's worked with him for years, that she is intelligent and trustworthy and valuable, and he respects her, and he cares about her, and she cares about him, and she sees him, apparently a lot more clearly than anyone else he knows. And when she sadly confesses that she 'doesn't count', he realizes that she is also quite possibly his savior as well. _

_When he trusts her with the plan to help him fake his death, when she indirectly helps save John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade without a second thought, because they matter to him, he realizes that once again he has underestimated Molly Hooper. She is strong, and she is loyal, and her unfounded, unconditional love for him has saved them all. _

And then, remembering how Molly Hooper saved John Watson, he remembered the text from John, and opened it to read it. He didn't even have time for hope to rise in his chest before it deflated again –

_Stop. Bomb. Stop. Tracker is Detonator. –JW_

_Sherlock, stop! Janine altered the tracker. It blows up Jim's boat. – JW_

And he couldn't help the tiny gasp of air that parted his lips when he read it. He felt as though his heart had stopped, for a moment.

The wind on the river, coupled with the sirens of approaching police boats and ambulances on the road, roared accusingly in his ears – _Mol-ly, Mol-ly, Mol-ly's dead. It's-your-fault_.

And more memories assaulted him, memories of staying with her after the fall, and one in particular stands out.

_He's back in London, after running to Wales for a few days, in connection to Moriarty. While he's been in and out of Molly's flat, he's been teaching her self-defense. It keeps his own mind focused and it couldn't hurt to increase her odds of surviving should she choose to focus her affections on another sociopath in his absence. And she's been improving, quite a bit, and her ready knowledge of human anatomy is certainly a strength. They've almost made a game of it – watching passerby while sitting on park benches, or from her apartment window, and based on observation, deducing how to best take them down. Of course Molly balks at the idea of 'taking down' the postman or the granny with a cane. Of course Sherlock always wins. _

_Except for once. _

_They'd been watching an older gentleman, grizzled, with a slight limp from arthritis in the knee, and Sherlock, not bothering to give him more than a glance, deduces that a swift kick in that kneecap and sharp elbow to the chest while sidestepping those meat cleavers he calls fists will suffice for 'taking him down'. _

_Molly sits for a moment, quiet, processing, and Sherlock is about to choose their next target – young woman, red hair, green sports jacket – when she contradicts him. "That wouldn't work."_

_He stops and looks at her, raising an eyebrow. _

"_The kick - " and she hesitates, because she hates the idea of kicking the old man – "the kick in the knee, sure, that would hurt him, and probably cause him to stumble, maybe fall – forwards, towards you. But…but the elbow in the chest – look at the way he holds his chin, and his nostrils, and the anterior jugular vein. He's used to high pressure on his chest – maybe worked – in submersibles? Or…on a deep sea oil rig? I'm not good at those sorts of deductions. But elbowing him in the chest – that wouldn't knock the wind out of him; it definitely wouldn't incapacitate him. He'd wring you out with those 'meat cleaver' fists." She giggles. _

_And Sherlock narrows his gaze at her, and then looks back at the older man, who is a few steps past their observation now. And he realizes she was right. _

"_Impressive, Molly Hooper. You win this round."_

_And she smiles, proudly, at him. He finds himself returning her smile with a timid one of his own. _

_Looking away, she clears her throat, and says very softly – "Well. When all you look for are the weaknesses in a person, you can miss an awful lot of important things about them."_

_Sherlock is thoughtful before responding. "But when all you look for are their strengths, you can be blinded, and sorely disappointed."_

_And she smiles, but this time it's to herself. "Then maybe we should keep an objective eye, and not let any person's particular strengths or weaknesses cloud our judgment, but take them all in balance, eh?"_

_And it makes Sherlock uncomfortable, all of this 'you' and 'we' talk, so he changes the subject. "Young woman. Café. Red hair, green jacket. Jab to the solar plexus, or break her nose?"_

It was a good memory – and he realized he felt safe – completely safe - with her. And that at the time, she was learning not to let her affection for him cloud the reality that he was a broken man. One she still loved – but he was broken. And at the same time, he was learning that pure intellect – perhaps pure intellect was not the only mark of worth, in the world. And that that day, that week, that month – the worth of Molly Hooper's love and loyalty increased exponentially.

And more memories followed - returning to her after two years, and the day of solving crimes, and her slaps the day John found him with the junkies, and her visits with him in the hospital. Sherlock sank very gracefully to his knees, suddenly feeling very cold and very numb.

_It was ice, after all_.

But this wasn't the ice he was used to – the ice of his own creation, carefully cultivated and cooled to push people away. This ice – this complete, total absence of warmth – was something he had not experienced in a long, long time. He was not in control of this ice.

And the walls in his mind palace, containing all of his lessons on love – his observations of the sentiment of John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson and his parents and Greg Lestrade and Molly and Jo and Casey and Sarah – froze, cracked, and crumbled - and a conversation with Casey and Jo rose to the front of his thoughts.

"_Ah. Thank you. Based on your criteria for 'loving' someone, I see 'love' is merely a construct to simplify the experience of intellectual compatibility and the psycho-emotional bonds of trust, respect, protection, and happiness."_

_Jo and Casey exchange knowing glances, smirking. "Yes, love is all of those things. But it's not simple at all. And being in love-"_

"_I was referring only to love in the platonic sense, not romantic love. However, for the sake of scientific inquiry, are there any additional criteria for being 'in love', as opposed to simply 'loving' someone?"_

_Casey flushes, just a bit, and Jo colors a much deeper shade of red. She's the one who answers his question, though. "Yes, and no. Most people think of being 'in love' as that heady, exciting, happy feeling you get when you're…really, really physically attracted to someone. And that is kind of what being in love is, but real love isn't just an emotion – it's not just a feeling. It's a decision – one you make with your heart and mind – to care about someone forever."_

"_Yes, yes - but is physical attraction the only way to tell that you are romantically… involved with someone?"_

"_Well…I suppose not. You can be attracted to someone intellectually or emotionally, as well. But physical attraction usually comes with that. Not necessarily sexual, right away – but…if you enjoy being physically close to them, or in your case – if you don't mind being physically close to them for long periods of time, you might be attracted to them. If you like the way someone smells, or looks, or anything that involves the senses like that…there might be a chance there for falling 'in love' or romance or what have you."_

He had dismissed their criteria, then. Sherlock admitted months and months ago that he loved Molly Hooper, and was relieved to find that he was not showing signs of physical attraction to her then. This platonic love was something he could reason with, something he could adjust to. Now, though – now that she was (probably…most likely) gone – _Mol-ly's dead. It's-your-fault_. (every sound and every rhythm in the area was telling him that – shouting that truth at him) – he realized that – perhaps – probably - he really, truly, completely loved Molly Hooper, in every way that he – high-functioning sociopath - possibly could.

He loved her - intellectually and emotionally – but the memories flooding through his mind proved that he also loved her physically. He loved the feel of her cheek beneath his lips and the smell of her hair and the particular warm shade of brown that colored her eyes. He loved the sound of her even breathing as she slept and her laughter – not the nervous laughter most people heard, when she was trying to laugh off an insult or her own awkwardness, but her real laughter. He'd heard it, several times, while he was staying with her after the fall. It was pleasant and light and bubbly and …yellow. Her laughter was her favorite color. He never minded those rare instances when he brushed his arm against hers, working with her in the lab, and he…enjoyed just the feel of her presence in the room. But he also appreciated that she could sense when he did not want physical contact – those times in the hospital when she had refrained from touching him, because he needed silence and space to sort out everything that had happened.

He loved everything about her, just the way she was. Sherlock realized that he was not a normal person – he could never fall 'in love' with anyone, not the way normal people 'fall in love'. He could never spend waking moments obsessing over her beauty or waiting giddily for her next phone call, any more than he could obsess over his own arm or foot or fingerprint. But he also realized that Molly Hooper had become a part of his life – a part of _him_ – and he loved her, and needed her, and _wanted _her – her mind, her emotions, her love, and her physical closeness to him. Molly Hooper was the closest thing he ever had to true love – she was the closest he was ever going to get to falling in love – and his dad was right.

He's a Great Sparrow, and he'll never find another mate - never find another Molly Hooper.

Loosing her was like loosing a part of himself.

He knew now that Jim's text was absolutely, clearly, terrifyingly correct.

_You don't die from a broken heart – you just wish you did_. And his physical heart wasn't broken, but it did beat out, in a pulmonary arrhythmia, _Mol-ly's dead. Mol-ly's dead. It's-your-fault. Mol-ly's dead. _

He'd won, technically. Jim was dead (as long as the body in the water truly proved to be Jim, this time – and _that_ probability was growing higher by the minute), Janine was in jail, and she would probably be executed shortly for treason. But victory had never been so bitterly awful. Sherlock was falling again, and this time, there was no Molly there to catch him.

He'd learned his lesson about love, all right. _Caring is not an advantage_.

* * *

**Just keep reading. **


	17. In Which Love is Buoyant

**Thank you for keepin' on, keepin' readin'. **

**Without further ado:**

_Chapter 17, In Which Love is Buoyant_

"Sh-sh-Sherlock?"

He was hearing her voice now, in his mind – broken, stuttering, distant. Perhaps he didn't win. Perhaps Jim _had_ won – perhaps Sherlock was going completely and totally mad. And Sherlock knew he'd chosen ice, and so he focused – painfully, haltingly, on _not caring_, on clinically detaching himself from his memories of Molly Hooper -

But there it was again, below him, from the water – _not_ in his mind.

"Sh-Sherlock. H-h-help-p m-m-meee." And Sherlock thought that the sound of teeth chattering was quite possibly the most beautiful, angelic sound in the world.

Because there, clinging to the little ladder off the side of the run-down, stolen boat, was his sparrow - Molly Hooper – defying mathematical probability, the ends of her hair charred and smelling awful, and she was wet and cold and bruised and covered in oil and filth and she was probably five minutes from descending into hypothermia – but even in that state, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life.

_Caring is not an advantage_, he reminded himself forcefully – _look at what it almost did to you, just then_ – but – but -

Almost without noticing, without thinking, he crawled to the ladder and his arm descended to pull her up onto the boat. Once she was on deck, shivering and coughing and giving him a small half-smile before her tears spilled over she began to cry, he pulled her roughly to his chest (apparently his arms knew how to embrace someone of their own accord) and she buried her face in his scarf. He wrapped his arms around her and held her closely, firmly – stiffly - and though the cold river water seeped into the outer layer of his coat, still - he held her.

_Caring is not an advantage_, he reminded himself again – but – what was this feeling, now? Light – warmth – the feel of her against him – and the retreat of the ice, in his mind and chest -

His eyes were dry and his expression was still blank with shock as he gently pulled away and took off his scarf, using it to gently, carefully wipe the wet silt and salt and oil from her face, reveling in the touch of her skin. _Had it always felt this pleasant, this soft?_

_Caring is not an advantage_, he told himself – and yet – in a matter of _seconds_ – seconds! – doing nothing but pressing against him - she's completely nullified the horrible, painful, numbing affects of the raging chemical imbalance brought on by shock he was feeling just moments before. _How did she do that?_

Her violent shivering brought him back to himself – _hypothermia_, something warned him – and he helped her peel off her wet jumper, heavy and sopping wet, leaving her thin undershirt on, and wrapped her in his coat. The inside of the coat was still pleasantly warm. She leaned in to him, sideways, her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder, and he did not pull away.

_Why didn't he pull away? What was this feeling, now_? His own trembling had ceased. He felt strong, solid, sure - and yet – light - relieved? – no. He searched, hard, for the right word. It was important, somehow, to quantify this feeling – describe it – it was new - Flying? No. Stupid. And yet – floating? Maybe. Untethered?

He felt a particularly violent shake from Molly, and tightened his grip on her, pressing his own cheek onto her wet hair, using the hand not wound around her waist to rub her arms, up and down, creating friction - willing some of the warmth he was feeling now to travel into her – and –

- No. His lip twitched as he realized that the feeling he was experiencing right now was certainly not _untethered_. If anything, he felt very tethered indeed to the well-being of the little doctor in his arms.

_Caring is not an advantage, _he reminded himself again…but the voice in his head was uncertain, this time.

The police boat was upon them, now, and people were boarding the boat Sherlock had commandeered and were calling for medics and bringing towels and blankets and warm liquid for both of them to drink. Sherlock released Molly, always keeping her in his peripheral vision, and took special care to make sure they'd collected the body that looked like Jim in the water. He'd looked it over, carefully – sharply – and though he'd still order DNA testing – he was fairly confident that yes, James Moriarty was dead.

And John texted him to say that they'd reached the hospital and were getting Mary settled – stitches for her arm, first, and then to the birthing room, and Sherlock replied that Jim was dead, he was with Molly, and they'd both be at the hospital soon.

Sherlock noticed absently that he'd replied to John's text single-handedly, because one arm had once again wrapped itself firmly around Molly's shivering waste. And something in the back of his mind recalled that shivering was a good thing, because it meant hypothermia had not set in.

And though he wondered how on earth she managed to escape that boat without help – how she got out in time, how she didn't die from the explosion or debris or drowning, how she swam the hundred meters to his little boat without succumbing to exhaustion or cold - he was so, so _glad_ that she was alive, and here, in his arms – he was so…so light, so – _buoyant_ – yes, that was it – buoyant – he noted the strange sensation his body was experiencing, and tucked the fact away for later - that he didn't deduce her until she was safely taken care of, in transit to the hospital.

* * *

Sherlock rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital. He watched the EMT check her over carefully, his sharp eyes taking in all that the miniscule signs that the dull emergency worker missed. Left thumb – broken – self-inflicted? - arms and ankles – signs of restraint – bruising along her left arm, from a fight with a…another woman? She'd had coffee, and…nothing. Nothing else to tell him what had happened on that boat.

They traveled in silence to the hospital. She smiled at him, blinking hard, wincing when the EMT prodded her broken thumb, and then answering the emergency worker's questions, quietly. Sherlock focused on a curl of her hair near the nape of her neck. His face was once again chiseled from stone.

_Caring is not an advantage_. A statement, proven time and again, by all the people who had failed him in this life. A statement he'd taken at face value since his brother presented it to him after Redbeard died and Evelyn Burlingame left the library after graduating from university. A statement challenged by Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, Mary, and Molly. A statement - after noticing that this feeling of…_buoyancy_, and _happiness_, and _clarity…_was not fading, but staying pleasantly strong as he rode next to Molly Hooper in an ambulance – a statement that he was beginning to question himself.

_Caring is not an advantage_, his brother's voice reminded him, sharply, almost querulously.

_How would you know?_ Sherlock answered silently.

Of course, _he_ couldn't know for sure, yet, either – whether this love he felt was still platonic, or something more - there were chemical bodily reactions to quantify, and emotions to place, and scenarios to reason through – but the instantaneous, positive affect Molly Hooper's appearance at the boat had had on his body and mind was something to consider. It was something to consider quite carefully, indeed.

* * *

When they reached the hospital, Sherlock saw her at once to an examining room. He stayed with her, standing close to her side, until Lestrade arrived. She seemed content to rest on the bed in silence, and that suited Sherlock just fine.

_Perhaps caring is more like any habit_, he reasoned. _It __**can**__ be extremely disadvantageous if misplaced or overused, but when well-placed and carefully controlled, it may actually have positive effects on the mind and body_.

It was certainly having a positive effect on him, now. The residual desperate, sour feelings he'd had on the boat had all but disappeared – they lingered only in his memory – and they'd been replaced with this light, peaceful, stillness.

It unsettled him, the peacefulness.

Loosing Molly had felt like loosing a part of himself, but when he'd gotten her back, mere minutes later – when she'd returned from the dead herself (he'd never been more happy to be wrong) – it was like she'd been put back all wrong. She didn't fit neatly into the little puzzle space labeled 'Molly Hooper' anymore.

His mind was functioning at full capacity once again – no broken walls or unwanted memories parading about now – and her presence had helped that to happen. She was definitely connected to his mental, physical, and emotional recovery – and he suspected that it had to do with the fact – yes, it was a fact, he was sure of it – that, if he wanted one, she would be his Great Sparrow.

He wasn't sure he wanted a Great Sparrow.

But he wasn't sure he _didn't_ want one, either.

He needed to talk to John.

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the good Detective Inspector Lestrade. He nodded to him, once, and squeezed Molly's good hand once, gently. "John and Mary – Mary's in labor" he explained softly to her, and she nodded once in return, still in a sort of shock herself, as he left the room.

* * *

Sherlock's talent for timing only ever applied to murders and mysteries. His timing in other affairs was atrocious.

Such was his timing when he barged into the room Mary and John and several doctors and nurses occupied, who were all rather occupied themselves with helping Mary give birth. She'd received careful stitches for her gunshot wound before being placed on an IV and set up in the maternity ward. When John had received the text that Sherlock and Molly were fine, and on their way to the hospital, and that Jim was dead, they'd assumed they could focus on having a baby and deal with the fallout of the case later.

They were wrong.

"John," he announced, ignoring the flustered protests of the male nurse by the door – he simply sidestepped him and brushed him aside, in a swift move that might have looked like dancing – "I require your services as a doctor and friend."

Mary glared at him from her bed. "And I require his services as a doctor and _husband_."

John simply stared at him, mouth open, eyebrows raised ridiculously high on his face. He laughed, once, in disbelief. "Bit busy now, Sherlock. Out you go." He pointed purposely at the door Sherlock had just walked through.

"But I need a diagnosis! I mean, I need to be _sure_ that I'm not suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, or Stockholm Syndrome, or-"

"Or what?! You're fine, Sherlock – well, _fine_ being a relative term, but it can wait-"

"But I feel _buoyant_, John! There's got to be something odd about that."

John paused for a moment, incredulous. "_Buoyant?_ So you're worried you've got a mental disorder because you're…_happy_?"

"More than _happy_, John. It's…it's _relief_ and _happiness_ and _buoyancy_ and I don't know how she did it!"

The room seemed to grow quiet at Sherlock's outburst.

"How…_who_ did it, Sherlock?" John asked, face…suspicious.

"Molly Hooper." Sherlock said, matter-of-fact.

"So, you're happy you-" John began, face puzzled, when he was interrupted by an irate wife.

"Out. Out!" She said, her words short and her face red.

John turned to her. "Right, sorry – Sherlock, this can wait-"

"No…" Mary gasped. "Nope. Out. You." She pointed at her husband, and then gripped the bedrail as another contraction wracked her body.

John's mouth dropped open. "Wha – no! No! I'm not _leaving-_"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mary spat, exhausted, after the contraction passed. "Just go _out_ into the hallway with our _adopted_ child, and _talk _to him about his horribly repressed feelings for Molly Hooper, and then come back _in_ for the birth of our _biological_ child, yeah?"

When John hesitated, she chucked her cup of ice chips at him.

Sherlock and John made a beeline for the door.

* * *

In the hallway, John folded his arms in front of his chest and looked up at Sherlock, face unreadable.

Sherlock rocked on his heels, realizing that taking his best friend away from the birth of his first child was probably a bit _not_ good. "So…"

John raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to go on.

Sherlock swallowed.

John sighed. "Fine, okay. You saved her-"

"No," Sherlock corrected. "I didn't."

John looked at him, surprised. "Your text said-"

"-that Molly and I were fine and on our way to the hospital. Yes."

"But you didn't-"

"No."

"Then how-"

"Not important, at the moment. Buoyancy. Buoyancy is why we're here."

John snorted. "Right. Okay. _Now_ you want to talk about feelings."

Sherlock's face became unreadable. "If you prefer that I-"

And John remembered Jim's threat, and fire, and ice, and he suddenly began taking Sherlock's request for help much more seriously. "No. Sorry. Really – sorry. I'm fine, now. But we still have to…make this quick, mmm?"

Sherlock nodded.

"So…you're feeling…buoyant?" John tried, keeping a steady eye on Sherlock's countenance.

"Yes."

John shook his head. "Good, good. So – light, and…happy?"

"That would be the connotation of the word, yes."

"And…you feel that way…because?"

"I don't know! Do you think I have some sort of stress disorder? Is it possible that I am still in shock?" And though his face did its best to maintain its carefully crafted stoicism, John could see Sherlock was confused, and concerned.

"Shock from what?" John had never known Sherlock to be shocked at his own genius, or propensity for saving everything at the last minute.

Sherlock swallowed, and stared at the floor. "I didn't get your text in time, John."

And John's mouth dropped open for about the fiftieth time that day. "The boat – it – it _exploded_?" John rubbed a hand across his face in disbelief.

"Mmm."

"With Molly _on_ it?" He gave Sherlock his best _don't-mess-with-me-by-insulting-my-deduction-skills-right-now_ look.

"If not _on_ it, than extremely close to it - that was why I said I was in _shock_, John. _Really_."

"So how did she _survive?_ Molly – of…of course you're in shock – but – you're _buoyant_? So the boat exploded and she's fine – she's _fine?! _Wait-"

"_Really_, John! It's hard enough to sort out my own emotions. Don't go mixing yours up with mine!" Sherlock snapped.

"Hm." John huffed, staring at the floor, thoughtfully.

"I'm new at this…feeling…thing." Sherlock admitted quietly.

"So you felt shocked when you thought she was dead, and you were really…upset?"

"Not the best choice of word, but yes, that's a moderately acceptable synonym."

John closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head, once, reminding himself to be patient. "So…somehow…she wasn't dead?"

"She came swimming up to the boat, wet and covered with the filth of London, and asked me to help her. I haven't asked her yet how she…didn't die. I could only deduce that she fought off a woman, who was a bit stronger than her, that she broke her left thumb, possibly in escaping restraints, and that she removed her shoes sometime before the…the explosion."

John bit his tongue, reminding himself that they could solve _that_ mystery later. Sherlock was making some rather large steps towards _not_ being a machine, and he needed to encourage that. "And her not being dead…that made you feel…buoyant?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. It was…instantaneous. When I saw her…she was hideous." He shifted his gaze from the ground to the doctor's face, searching. He found only the listening, relaxed, understanding features of his best friend. Good – John was withholding judgment, listening with an objective ear. He continued. "Some of her hair's…burnt…and she was cold and dirty and wet and smelled like…explosive residue and polluted water. When I helped her onto the boat…I…she…she touched me."

John raised an encouraging eyebrow. "She…pressed her face into my scarf, and held onto me…and cried…and I should have flinched. I should have pushed her away, or at most, only given her my coat to prevent hypothermia. But I…I…"

And a tiny smile began to form on John's face. "You held onto _her_, didn't you?"

Sherlock tilted his chin thoughtfully. "I did. And although everything about her appearance should have repulsed me…I was…tethered to her. And every awful physical reaction caused by the shock ended nearly as soon as she…touched me. As soon as I felt that she was really alive, and _not_ dead – my heart rate returned to…well, relatively normal, and my body relaxed and my mind cleared and I could focus again. I was able to identify Jim's body and correct the idiot on the police force who believed the blast was caused from the _leaky engine_ - it wasn't even the same boat, John! And then…I felt…buoyant."

John repressed a smile and nodded. "And you still feel it, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And how does that make you feel? The still feeling buoyant?"

"I can have feelings about having feelings?" Sherlock snorted.

"Yeah, actually, you can. So. How does it make you feel?"

Sherlock shifted on his feet. "I…don't know."

"Confused, then."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Yes. Confused."

"Because…?"

"Because I'm not sure if I want to be a Great Sparrow or a machine."

John laughed, and then stopped when he noticed the expression on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, I've no idea what a Great Sparrow is. But it sounds to me – and don't argue with me, you wanted my help – you _asked_ for it – it sounds to me like you love Molly. A lot. Maybe as a very close friend, maybe more. I can't decide that for you. But if her _touch_ cleared your mind and relaxed your body, mate, than you just may love her as more than a friend. And it's something you need to figure out, and when you do, you need to talk with her about it. And _not-_" John held up a finger – "_not_ like a machine. Not as an experiment – oh, you're definitely _not_ to experiment on her. I'm not sure how Great Sparrows deal with love, but you can sure as hell bet they're not machines about it. If you love her as a friend, you need to tell her that – goodness knows she's earned that much. And if you love her as _more_ than a friend – well, I can't say anything for her about that. But you better present a damn good reason, or five, or ten – for her to reasonably agree to try something like a _relationship_ with you. All right?"

Sherlock nodded – not frowning, not smiling – just thinking – and John grinned. "Right. I've got a daughter to welcome to this world, Sherlock, so you just stay here and think. Maybe pay Molly a visit."

John opened the door to Mary's room. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"If you come into this room uninvited again, I'll let Mary punch you in the face."

"Noted."

**Yay! Thank you for making it this far! I would never kill off a main character. I just had to pretend to so Sherlock would recognize his darn feelings.**

**Please tell me what you thought of the past two chapters. I really, truly want to know what you think about the whole Sherlock-feeling revelation, and if there is anything I can do to make it more in character for him. I feel pretty good about it all, but I can always improve. **

**And what about Molly, you ask? How did she escape? How did she feel when Sherlock basically held her like he would never let her go? You will find out in the next chapter…coming soon! Muahahaha. **

**Please review, dear friends.  
**


	18. In Which Love is a Lesson in SelfDefense

**Wow, thank you all so much for the overwhelmingly positive reception of the last two chapters! **

**Thank you so much to the guest, miischall, lovebirds413, Einvine, and Chee2468642, and keeptheotherone for your support and feedback.  
**

**I'm ecstatic that you enjoyed them, and I'm excited for what's coming up. In this chapter, we see Molly's side of the story. :)  
**

* * *

_Chapter 18, In Which Love is a Lesson in Self-Defense_

Molly Hooper nodded absently to Sherlock as he left the room – he was seeing to John and Mary – and oh! If Mary was here, in labor, that meant she was all right – safe. She felt a small pang of guilt for not asking earlier, about Mary, but…really, she supposed she'd be forgiven. Still in shock, and all that. She barely noticed Greg's presence in the room. She was staring, discreetly – fascinated - at her hand.

_Sherlock held my hand_, she thought numbly to herself. It was…warm…and tingled, pleasantly. She rubbed her fingers together, lightly, remembering the ghost-like touch of Sherlock's hand on hers – and how it traveled, up and down her arms – and the press of his cheek, on her hair -

Molly Hooper had dealt with many things in her lifetime. She had seen the cruelty of classmates and beauty of close friendship, the sorrow of loosing a beloved father and the reassurance of having a strong, loving mother. She'd been on both the giving and receiving end of heartbreak and disappointed hopes (well…mostly the receiving end, but still). She had worked hard to achieve many goals - academic, career-oriented, and personal, and she'd performed autopsies on people who'd died horrific deaths, and lied to friends for their own protection. She'd also saved the life of the man she loved and slapped the same man silly over a foolish, dangerous mistake, on his part. She'd had a very busy life, for a shy single woman who worked nearly exclusively with the dead.

Today, though – today contained more than Molly Hooper ever thought she would experience. She'd been kidnapped – a new, terrifying experience, although not as horrifying as what followed. It was cruelty of the worst kind for Jim to try and persuade her that Sherlock _loved_ her. Of course he didn't – he didn't. Not _that_ way.

Did he?

Well…he might love people, as in – care about their well-being, and…people might _count_ to him…but really, _love_ was not a word she'd ever heard Sherlock utter, and she never expected to hear it from him, in regards to anyone. But…she _was _kidnapped, to get to Sherlock, because she counted, and he _did _come to rescue her – even he was just - just a tad late. So, perhaps he did care about her – _love_ her - in the most basic, friendliest kind of way. She hadn't let herself believe it, on the boat, with Jim…

_The boat_. Molly shivered again, and was faintly aware of Greg tucking another blanket more firmly around her lower half. She blinked, and breathed deeply through her nose, allowing the feeling of panic and fear to wash through her and out, again.

Escaping – pain, sharp, in her hand – a fight - the boat – jumping, icy, frigid, into water – the explosion – the swimming – awful, horrible – death – choking -

And then – Sherlock.

Of course Sherlock would rescue her. Of course, it _had_ to be Sherlock. Not a secret agent or Sergeant Donovan or Greg or John or some stranger. Of course it _had_ to be Sherlock, reaching down with strong arms and gentle hands and a warm coat.

Her heart skipped in her chest, and she remembered the feel of his arms around her, and how tightly he held her.

_He was just trying to keep you warm_, she chided herself. _Hypothermia was a legitimate danger, for you._ She did count, of course – he was – logically – saving her -

_But Sherlock held my hand_. The traitorous thought returned to her mind, giving her hope and warmth in a place deep inside her chest. Perhaps he'd held her, on the boat, to keep her warm – but – in the ambulance, and in the examining room, out of wet clothes and into warm blankets - all danger of hypothermia decreasing rapidly, if not gone – his hand had kept returning to hers, hesitantly, once every few moments – just a light, reassuring squeeze, occasionally his thumb grazing her knuckles, for a few seconds. Why – why would he do that, if he did not love her? Even if he was just – comforting – why comfort, if there was no love in it?

_He loves you, he loves you not, he loves you, he loves you not - _

_Stop it_, she willed herself, squeezing her eyes shut, and tensing.

"Molly." Greg intruded on her reverie gently, quietly.

"Oh," she breathed, opening her eyes, and smiling tremulously at the concerned face of her friend. "Sorry -"

"Sorry? Molly, you have absolutely _nothing _to be sorry for. All right?" He asked, holding her good hand, eyes searching her face, traveling swiftly, clinically over her body, and resting again on her face. "Gave us a quiet a scare." He smiled kindly, lopsided, at her. "Even Sherlock. Practically had to pry him off you, I heard."

Molly felt a tiny bit of color creep into her pale cheeks, and smiled inwardly, lips not quite still enough to form a solid smile.

Greg cleared his throat, once, and looked away, before holding her gaze, his face serious. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm very sorry you had to go through that, and I'm glad you're safe. We all are."

She returned his smile again, fleetingly, and went back to worrying her lips. She shivered again. _Blast it – never going to be warm –_

"Molly, I have to ask you what happened-"

She blanched, and shivered again – _at least I don't have to pee_ -

"-not yet, if you don't want to – and it doesn't have to be me – you can rest, first – get warm again. You're still in shock. But, Molly – you _are_ going to have to tell someone – someone from the Yard - what happened, and as soon as you feel you can do it…you should. Molly," Greg said, and he paused, waiting until she looked him in the eye. "Don't keep it bottled up, yeah? You're not alone. Don't let it turn into something…well, just don't let the memory of it become worse than the reality of what it was. I know several people, myself included, who are willing to listen, anytime you need to talk about it. Okay?"

She nodded, hesitant.

Greg sat back, as if to stand, and she gripped his hand hard. She was…not afraid, exactly, of being alone – but she didn't _want_ to be alone, not now.

He quickly leaned forward, returning her grip gently and firmly, watching her face.

"I…I'd like to tell you, Greg," she whispered, her voice breaking just a bit, eyes darting between their hands and his face, then looking away.

She wanted Sherlock's hand, really, and she felt embarrassed, because Greg was a good friend, and she should be thankful he was here…really…but…she wanted Sherlock here. But she needed someone now, to comfort her, to hold her hand, and reassure her that she was fine, that she was going to be fine, and that everyone and everything would be fine. And her eyes filled with tears again, because what she wanted and what she needed were once again at odds with one another.

"Okay, all right, I'll take your statement," Greg quickly reassured her.

Molly bit her lip, blinking back tears, and nodded. "Th-thank – you," she said brokenly.

"Hey, hey!" Greg said softly, rubbing her hand gently. "It's okay! Let it out, Molly. Cry. It's okay."

And so Molly turned her face away from him, and let tears fall, her body shaking with silent sobs. Greg stared at her hand, nodding absently, pressing his lips together, understanding.

"He…he sent Janine to get us," she began after her tears were spent and her eyes burned with the salt of so many of them. Greg looked up at her, sharply. "I'd just f-finished my shift at St. Bart's – and – Mary – and – I…" she sniffled loudly, once, and looked around. "Can you hand me a tissue, please?"

He quickly complied, handing her the whole box, and also took out a pad of paper and pen, as well as a pocket recorder, to take her statement. He could ask questions later – right now, he needed to listen and record, and comfort as best he could. It was hard on him – as a D.I., and a friend, but he hid it very well with years of experience, and sat in to listen like the faithful, stalwart man he'd always been.

When she had dried her face and nose, she continued, twisting a tissue again and again with her right hand. She told him about the pills, about Mary getting shot, about waking up in her father's study on a boat (she wasn't worried about her mum, no – her mum had been visiting friends in Canada – she'd left after the holidays, and would be gone for another month – no, don't call her, yet – I'll do it, later), about coffee, and Jim, and the two other people she knew of, on the boat – one male, one female – Lestrade confirmed that they'd found the body of the woman, but not the other male – they might have to dredge the river, to find it – and about needing to use the loo, and Jim letting her go with Celia to use it.

Here she paused, and noticed distantly that the tissue she'd been twisting was in shreds in her lap. Her chin trembled, and two fat tears trickled down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away with the heel of her palm, and grabbed another tissue.

She smiled when Greg sat down his pen and took her hand, once again. His gaze was kind and understanding. She felt a surge of thankfulness towards her friend – towards all of her friends – and a tiny bit of the burden on her heart lifted. She lifted her head, and continued with calm resignation.

"Celia took me to the loo, near the back…stern?...of the boat. When…we got there…there were…two doors, in the room. We went in one…and…she – she had handcuffs. She handcuffed me, to the…" she giggled, once, short, "to the towel rack - above the toilet paper holder."

* * *

_The loo smells like urine and stale river water, and like too-strong potpourri. There's also a strong whiff of pollution, from a factory on the river, which has somehow made its way below deck. Everything about this bathroom is garish and dim – and the door they walked in is sawed off, a few inches from the floor. It leads right in to the toilet, and next to the toilet is a sink with a small cabinet beneath it. Another door, on the opposite wall, to the right of the sink, leads to who-knows-where. _

"_Don't even think about it," snarls Celia, and single-handedly handcuffs Molly's wrist – tensed and stiff in a fist - to the towel rack. Molly remembers Janine's adeptness with using a single hand in the cab, and briefly considers training herself to be ambidextrous, if she makes it out of this alive. It seems to be quite useful._

"_I'll be outside the door," Celia nods to the sawn-off door, and trains her gun on Molly, backing up, and closing the door._

_And so Molly awkwardly unbuttons her trousers and sits on the foul-smelling toilet, one arm in the air, connected to the towel rack. But she's terribly nervous, and knows that this may be her only chance to think of a plan without being watched, so she thinks - _

_What would Sherlock do?_

_Think, Molly. Think. _

_She bites her lips and looks around the tiny bathroom, taking in the sink, and the towel rack; the little cabinet and the other door by the sink…Celia's feet, outside, straight in front of her…and she's got it. _

_She pauses, blinking, and thinks through it again. _

_It just might work._

_As long as the other door doesn't lead to a closet._

_Oh please, don't let it be a closet._

* * *

"She…left me in there. And I…I came up with a plan," Molly continued, feeling a bit feverish as the memory of adrenaline ghosted through her veins. Her lashes fluttered and she stiffened her lower lip, refusing to cry again.

* * *

"_Celia?" Molly calls, hesitant, her voice barely a whisper. Celia doesn't answer._

"_Celia?" Molly tries again, a bit louder, this time._

"_What?" A harsh response._

"_Um…is it…all right if I turn the sink on? So I can…go…?" She holds her breath and waits for a response._

_She can practically hear Celia roll her eyes. "Whatever. Just know I will shoot if I think you're up to anything in there."_

"_Oh…okay." Molly's voice is back to a whisper – it's like a nightmare, when you want to scream, but nothing comes out. She licks her lips, reaches awkwardly to turn the spigots on the sink, and waits for the water to run. _

_And of course she uses the toilet – that's what she came here for, isn't it? And she really, truly did need to go; that wasn't a lie – quickly, very quickly, and then doesn't flush. She leaves the tap water flowing from the sink._

_Slowly, slowly, she stands, and buttons her trousers, making sure to keep her feet very, very still. She's banking on the idea that Celia is watching her feet, just as she is watching Celia's. _

_And then comes the difficult bit._

_Sherlock told her, when he was staying at her flat after his 'death', that it was terribly simple to break out of handcuffs. All you needed were two bobby pins. And if that failed, all you needed to do was break your thumb, and out your wrist would slip._

_Unfortunately, Molly did not have any bobby pins._

* * *

"She was…watching my feet, through the bottom of the door…it was, sawn off, sort of, at the bottom. I…well, I turned the sink on, so she couldn't – couldn't hear? And I stood up, carefully, and made sure…I made sure my feet were very still, so she would think I was still…using it, you know?" Molly blushed. "And then…I…I broke my thumb so I could slip out of the handcuffs."

Greg made a strange, sympathetic sound, and the pained expression on his face made Molly look away from him, at the shredded tissues on her lap.

"Moll…" he whispered, full of compassion, and a little awe, and she blinked rapidly, and swallowed.

* * *

_The hardest part is not screaming. It hurt – oh, it hurt terribly – and her heart races and she feels like throwing up – thank goodness the water in the sink is flowing. She can't help a moan escape her lips, though, as she cracks her proximal phalange, and pushes her hand and broken thumb through the circle of the cuffs. And don't move – don't – move – she pretends her feet are cement pillars, hundred-year-old oaks, immovable – can't move them. Tears blur her vision, but she blinks them rapidly away, and freezes, eyeing Celia's trainers outside the door._

"_Everything all right in there?" Celia barks._

_Molly whimpers, loudly, for effect. The whimper doesn't require much acting. "Just having some…uh…cramps."_

"_Ugh. Don't care. Finish up, though. Quickly."_

_And then comes the other part of her plan, only marginally less difficult than breaking her thumb._

* * *

"After I…got out, of the handcuffs…I…wiggled out of my shoes. They're…always tied – I just like to slip them on and off, and not bother with – with tying, so they're pretty loose. I…well…"

* * *

_Carefully, carefully, minutely, she slips out of them, inching her toes up the well-worn soles, freezing every few seconds, heel up and out, inching, inching - first the right foot, then the left, until she is standing on her tip-toes just inside the openings of her trainers. And then…carefully, carefully…_

* * *

"I...slid over the sink – lifted my feet in the air - it _hurt_, with my thumb – I had to…put pressure on my hands, to get across without letting my feet down-"

* * *

_She's done it! Now…the door. Please…please…she tries it – unlocked, and carefully, carefully twists the handle, cracking it – just a bit, just a bit…and peeks through the crack. Not a closet!_

* * *

"I opened the other door, and it lead to a room…unused, but it had other doors. So I…went through it, and…closed it behind me…and found a door in the corridor outside _that_ room that lead to…to stairs."

* * *

_Her heart is pounding now, and she's trembling, nearing panic – surely Celia will find out soon that she's gone…but she's made it to the deck, and she creeps out, in her socks – yes! She finds a…boat thing, she's not sure what it's called – on the deck, large and bulky - but she hides behind it, and she's hidden from view. She has a clear view of the river, and aside from one tiny grey boat, in the distance, heading their way, there is no one around to help her. The wind blows, and she shivers, wrapping her good arm around herself. _

_She contemplates jumping – but – really, even though she's a strong swimmer (summers in the country and a swim team at 14 will do that, for you), she knows it's still winter and cold and the risk of hypothermia is very great. They're at least two hundred meters from either bank of the river, and though there are factories about, there's no guarantee there'll be anyone to help her once she does get there. She needs to…maybe go to the approaching boat? But what if it is someone working for Jim, coming to help him? _

_Her decision is made when Celia comes barging onto the deck. Molly sees her twist her neck – first this way, then that – and Molly freezes, shivering, suddenly very aware of the cold air seeping its way through her jumper. _

* * *

"I hid on deck. I tried to…well, Celia – found me." Molly swallowed, closing her eyes. "She was creeping around…I tried to run… to back away, but I lost sight of her, and she...she…grabbed me, behind this…well, it was tall, and she was…behind me, and I – I actually _backed_ into her."

* * *

_She can't see the grey boat anymore – she's hidden from sight, and backs up, and then there are arms around her, gripping her hard, and the barrel of a gun – and Molly's heart breaks at the feel of the cold metal and she's so, so sorry and Molly goes limp in Celia's arms, defeated._

* * *

"And she grabbed me…but…I…fought. I - I f-fought her."

* * *

_But her dead weight throws Celia off, and Celia stumbles, just enough, and her grip on the gun loosens, and at the knowledge that Celia has faltered, Molly straightens and twists out of Celia's hold, and in a flood, conversations with Sherlock on the best way to incapacitate a strong person with a gun come back to her._

_At first she's hesitant, and her first blow only serves to make Celia angry – but she remembers in time that the most important thing is to get the gun away from the enemy, and her next move – a sharp twist and intense pressure on the capitate and midcarpal joint, using her good right hand – causes Celia's grip to loosen even more, and with her injured hand, Molly painfully knocks the gun out of Celia's hand, and it slides into the water. _

_Celia swears at her and in a quick, expert move, turns and pins Molly's injured arm behind her back, twisting it painfully. Tears come to Molly's eyes, but adrenaline is coursing through her system and for some reason her sole purpose is now to get off of this boat and thank Sherlock for teaching her how to defend herself. _

_So she bends her knees, giving herself some power, and uses the energy to throw herself back into Celia, and as luck would have it, there is water on the deck, and Molly didn't plan on taking her down like that, but Celia slips, and falls, hitting her backside and head hard on the deck. Molly hears another bone in her own hand crack, but still scrambles to roll off Celia quickly, awkwardly, gasping in pain, inadvertently kneeing Celia in the ribs as she does so._

_Celia moans, and rolls her head back and forth, attempting to stay conscious, but Molly is already away from her. _

_And there is a shout – a man, the man who brought her coffee before Jim came in, steps out of a room, on a half-deck above her – was he steering the boat?, and Molly freezes for a split second, before a voice in her mind that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock's orders to her to jump. Now._

* * *

"We fought," Molly continued quietly, explaining to Greg. "And she slipped on…water, on the deck. I fell – on her, and got away, but there were…there was another man coming. So I – I jumped. Into the river."

Greg nodded, recording everything, lips pressed together, controlled. His eyes, when they met Molly's, were full of sympathy and encouragement.

"And I started swimming…underwater, following the current, away from the boat…towards…well, towards the grey boat. I didn't…know it was Sherlock, I was just…really hoping it wasn't someone working for – well, Jim."

* * *

_She remembers in time to keep her feet pressed together, and pinches her nose with her thumb and finger as she enters, her left hand held tightly to her body. The water is cold – icy cold, and in the shock she nearly gasps. She doesn't, though, and breathes out a few bubbles from her nose as she moves her arms, slowing her descent. She allows herself to sink for a few seconds before kicking, and begins paddling to the surface. The pain in her left hand is intense, but she does her best to ignore it. She reaches the surface and takes a deep breath and dives under again, just a few feet below the surface, the cold water already causing her to shiver intensely. Even going with the current, towards the grey boat, her broken thumb causes a fiery pain with every stroke of her left hand and her kicks are growing her weaker. She's only traveled maybe ten meters, and she's starting to worry that maybe – maybe she won't even make it to the grey boat, let alone any riverbank._

_She comes up again, and the boat is still coming towards her, maybe…a hundred meters away? But something…something about the captain is familiar…and her breath catches in her throat, and she realizes that unless Tom, or someone else with dark curls and a Belstaff is somehow coming to her rescue, her savior may very well be Sherlock Holmes._

_And a wave from the river slaps her in the face, and she chokes, but seeing possible-Sherlock has warmed her and determination has renewed her strength. And she needs to get a little farther away from Jim's boat and bullets, so she takes a deep breath, and dives under the water again, and begins to swim when she is suddenly propelled forward by a very large blast._

* * *

"And…I was…only, maybe…twenty meters from the boat - Jim's boat, and it – it - " Molly took in a deep, shuddering breath.

Greg gave her a moment, and then prompted, gently, "It what?"

"It…exploded."

* * *

_The blast is hot and sudden and causes her to breathe in, in shock, and she panics for a moment, because she's not sure which way is up or down and everything is so, so cold and murky. _

_But she sees a piece of something traveling downward, and using that as her guide, kicks in the opposite direction. _

_She reaches the surface, gasping, choking, sputtering, and turns, looking between boats, and finds that the boat she recently escaped from doesn't exist, anymore. _

_And she coughs and coughs, and it's all she can do for a moment to painfully,awkwardly tread to water. She looks around, frantically, the water choppy and rough from the explosion, and there are things burning around her. She nearly vomits when she sees what may very well be Celia's arm, burning, not far from her. _

_The air is thick with smoke and she takes the deepest breath she can manage and dives under again, swimming frantically, doing her best to focus on getting closer and closer to the little gray boat._

_She nearly gives up, once, but now she's close enough to see that it __**is**__ Sherlock, and he is on his knees, and his eyes are closed and he is so, so pale. And it would be nice, she thinks, if he would open his eyes and see her and make an effort to close the few meters that are between them, now, because she's increasingly, intensely cold, but she can still move, so that's good. Just a little farther…but it seems so far away. She swipes, once, with her good arm, for the ladder, but she's still too far away. _

_And then he opens his eyes, but he's still not seeing anything or anyone, and his expression is so heartbreakingly sad, and lost, and she thinks that she is so lucky to see Sherlock like this, with his guard down and his emotions so easily read._

_And then she realizes that he looks like that because he thinks she's dead. And her heart slows and although she's nearly physically frozen, the warmth in her chest gives her a last surge of determination, and she reaches the ladder, and clings to it, and calls him from his reverie with chattering teeth and shaky breaths._

* * *

"After it…did, I…swam. It hurt, and it was cold, but I swam to the other boat. Sherlock's boat." Molly said simply.

Greg didn't respond for a moment, and she looked up at him. His lips were parted, and he was staring at her with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and awe.

"You swam to the boat." He said, nodding at her, and then – "And Sherlock pulled you up."

* * *

_The look on his face when he sees her, attached to the ladder, shaking, shivering, and alive – his expression softens, and his eyes relax, and she can see that yes, she does count, because she is alive and – and – _

_And he pulls her up, onto the boat, and she can tell he's in shock, and she smiles timidly at him before bursting into tears, because she feels wounded and scared and relieved and happy, all at the same time, and she is exhausted._

_And then – then he pulls her close, and she buries her face into his scarf, breathing in the warmth and scent of him, and shivers hard, and his arms are around her, and she thinks that maybe she has died, and this is an angel welcoming her to heaven, but the pressure of her broken thumb against Sherlock's side reminds her that she is definitely not dead._

_And when he pulls away, a part of her heart stays with him, but he's not leaving, not pushing her away – he's using his scarf to clean her dirty face, and although his face is guarded and blank once again – partly from shock, partly from his own design – his eyes are still extremely expressive. _

_Perhaps – perhaps he does love her._

_And she shivers again, and he's holding onto her, rubbing her arms up and down, pressing his cheek to her head even as she presses her cheek to his shoulder. And she sadly realizes that maybe he is only trying to keep her warm. It __**would**__ be rather awful if she were to die of hypothermia after surviving kidnapping, a fight with one of Moriarty's henchwomen, an explosion, and a swim through icy cold river water. _

_But even when the police come, wrapping her in blankets and giving her something warm to drink, he returns to her, his arm holding her firmly by his side. _

_And she feels her violent shaking cease as she's loaded into the ambulance, and then – Sherlock comes with her, then, as well. _

_And she's distracted by the emergency technician attending to her, but she's also very aware of how close Sherlock is and how frequently he keeps brushing his fingers against her hand. _

_He even holds it, for a few seconds at a time, and she's afraid to look at him, because she's afraid he'll have on his fake smile, the one he gives clients when he's trying to be comforting. _

_But the few glances she steals of him give her hope, because she only sees confusion and concern. There is nothing fake about his expression. He is thinking through something, and so she stays quiet, and lets him think, because she has a lot to think about too. And a lot to try __**not**__ to think about._

* * *

"Yes." She nodded back at Greg.

"Right." Greg switched off the recorder, and snapped his pad of paper shut. He squeezed her hand, firmly, and smiled at her. "You are…well…that was amazing." He shook his head, emotions playing across his face in quick succession. "You're a _fighter_, Molly Hooper." And he smiled, proud of her.

And Molly smiled back, but her face fell suddenly. "Ooh…" she gasped. "Oh…Greg…if…if I hadn't fought…if I hadn't escaped…" and she felt panic rise inside of her, as her chest began to heave.

"Shhh, shhh. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Like me. Molly," Greg said sharply, standing now, bending over her, placing a hand on each of her shoulders, mimicking how she should breathe. She copied him, following his directions, and calmed, soon enough. She was too exhausted to keep panicking, like that.

But she did stare at the tissues, twisted to pieces in her lap. "Maybe…if I hadn't fought her…Celia…she'd b-be…alive." Her voice was barely a whisper. Guilt stabbed at her heart, but it wasn't as intense as her panic. She really was exhausted.

"Molly," Greg said, sternly. "You did not kill Celia. You did _not_ kill her. It is not your fault. Molly! Say it."

She kept her gaze firmly on her lap.

"Molly. Look at me."

Slowly, slowly - she met his gaze.

"Say it – It is not my fault."

"It…it is not my fault." And as she said the words, she realized that truly, really – although someone may be able to link a chain of events connecting her actions to the death of Celia…it really wasn't her fault.

"Who's fault was it, Molly?" Greg said, gently. "Who's fault was Celia's death?"

"J-Jim's fault. And Janine."

"And her own fault, too, Molly. She chose to work for him, bloody…absolute…sorry. But you're right. It is not your fault, and you have nothing to be sorry about. It'll get easier, Molly. The more you tell it, the more you work through it…it will get easier. Be proud of yourself, Molly Hooper." Greg chuckled once, thinking. "And Mary…who knew that the two of you had it in you to escape on your own? The pregnant nurse and the pathologist – brought on the downfall of one of Britain's greatest criminal masterminds. He seriously underestimated you. Underestimated all of us."

"Mary escaped on her own, too?" Molly said, glad to change the subject.

"Yes! Wait 'till you hear about it. Well…I guess I should…maybe let Mary tell it…" his voice trailed off, and Molly could tell he was struggling to _not_ tell the story.

"I'm sure she won't mind if you tell me your side," Molly encouraged.

"Right." Greg smiled, largely, at her. "So," he sighed, pausing, eyeing her carefully. When he saw she was listening, suppressing a shy smile at his eagerness, he continued. "While we're looking for you, I get a call from Sherlock's brother that Sherlock and John and Mary are probably in Sussex, and does he give me an _address?_ No, he gives me _latitude and longitude_ coordinates…."

Molly sat listening, smiling, waiting to be admitted for an x-ray and cast for her hand.

* * *

A few doors down, Sherlock was pacing the hallway. Every now and then, he would freeze, brow furrowed, muttering unintelligibly, fingers drumming on his thigh. After a few moments of this, he would then sigh, frustrated, scowl, and return to pacing.

He was working out scenarios in his mind palace.

In each and every one, he would ask Molly a series of questions designed to examine her feelings toward him, and his toward her. He suspected, of course, that she still _felt_ things – romantic things – for him – her poor choice of _substitute_ in his absence was proof enough, of that – but John _had_ told him he needed to present her with several good reasons for her to consider…well…he hated the word _relationship_, but he supposed that that was what it was – or would be.

He thought that perhaps he _would_ want to try…something, with her. To see if the positive effects she had on his all-around well-being extended after brushes with death. He thought they might – the more he reviewed past interactions with her, the more he realized that she _did_ help him – to focus, to calm, to feel – happy. He needed to experi – wait. John had said _no_ experiments.

But wasn't that what dating _was_? A social experiment, to see if two people were compatible?

Sherlock scowled again. _This_ was why he detested sentiment, and relationships, and emotions. They were unquantifiable experiments with far too many variables.

And so far, in all of projections of the conversation he planned on having with her, Mind-Molly ended up slapping him or crying. Neither were the results he was hoping for.

He wanted a rational discussion of feelings – chemical imbalances - and compatibility and social experiments and data, ending with her acceptance of a trial period of extended amounts of time spent with him, in order to see whether or not this was something he – they – wanted to pursue. But every time he went through such a discussion in his mind, he ended up with either a stinging cheek or a stinging heart.

Mind John rolled his eyes_. 'Just tell her you're happy she's alive and see where it goes from there, you great clot. Maybe hold her hand again. You don't always have to explain everything, you know.'_

Sherlock frowned. '_I __**know **__John. I know. But when I don't…think out…important social interactions, I tend to…'_

'_Misplace your foot? Yeah, I know. But you know what? So does Molly. She's understanding to a fault. So just…be with her. For some reason she seems to find your presence calming. Not sure why, but…there you have it.'_

Sherlock sighed. He could spend all evening wearing the tile in the hallway, and get nowhere. Best to get this over with and see if anything would come of it. Part of him wanted to try working with this fascinating new connection he had with Molly Hooper, and part of him wanted to run, and return to the status quo, and never have to think about change again – he wanted to defend himself from any pain she may cause, and really…he wanted to defend her from any pain he would cause her.

But change was inevitable, and pain was a fact of life, and his scientific mind was too curious about these new physical phenomena he was experiencing to just let it go.

So he took a breath, walked briskly to Molly Hooper's examining room, and pushed open the doors.

* * *

**So, bit of a cliffhanger, I know. But I wanted to get out Molly's side of the story, and I'm working on the next chapter already, so hopefully you'll have that in a few days.  
**

**I hope this seemed plausible. Molly is not a fighter, but I feel like if she were in a life or death situation she would still use what Sherlock taught her to defend herself, and she was just really lucky - everyone underestimates the tiny women, right? Please let me know what you think of Molly's escape, and if you notice anything missing (besides Sherlock, of course...he will appear with her quite readily in the next chapter!) :)  
**

**Thank you for your reviews!**


	19. In Which Love is Revealing

**Thank you to everyone for the reviews, suggestions, and support! I really appreciate all of the feedback. I always try to reply to it. Thank you also to the guest and to Arcoiris for the reviews, and for pointing out that my summary needed an update. In all honesty, I hadn't re-read it since Chapter 3.  
**

**And now, the big reveal. :)  
**

* * *

_Chapter 19, In Which Love is Revealing_

She wasn't there.

Sherlock had walked in, a mask of confidence displayed on his face. "Mol-", he began, and his eyes were met only with an empty bed and the quizzical expression of Inspector Lestrade, jotting some last minute information down in his pad of paper.

Greg smirked at the confused scowl on Sherlock's face. "She's getting her cast on, Sherlock. She's fine – she's nearly done - she'll be back in – maybe ten minutes, tops. How're John and Mary?"

Sherlock shook his head and replaced his confused expression with one of cool indifference. "Of course. Obviously. And – good. Fine. Or, they will be. I expect Mary is in a great deal of pain, right now."

Greg nodded, bemused. "Right. Naturally." Greg stood, stretched, and tucked his pad of paper into his back pocket.

Sherlock noticed, and deduced that he'd probably taken Molly's statement. Good. He should probably read it so he didn't have to ask her what she'd gone through. Probably wouldn't want to talk about it. And although he…held a deep regard for her…her tears were still something he wanted to avoid, at this particular moment in time. Now that the adrenaline was fading, he wasn't sure if he could react so…naturally and kindly to her tears, twice in one day.

"I need to see Molly's statement," said Sherlock.

Greg paused, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Please," Sherlock added, rolling his eyes, and holding out his hand expectantly.

Greg shook his head. "No."

Now Sherlock raised his eyebrow suspiciously.

"No, Sherlock – you can ask her what happened yourself. It'll…help her process everything. She needs to work through it. Physically, she'll be fine – just a broken thumb that'll heal-"

"-in approximately six weeks, yes. It will affect her work, but she should still be able to do lab and paperwork without too much trouble on her part-"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock! Are you really just concerned about lab access? Jeez-"

"No!" Sherlock protested, glaring at Lestrade. Of course not. He was thinking about _Molly_. Had he mentioned himself at all? No.

Greg studied his face, frowning, and sighed. "Answer's still no. Ask her yourself. Like I was _saying_, physically she'll be fine, but getting kidnapped, and blown up, and – all that – it'll take her a while to – well, to be herself again, Sherlock. She'll get there – she's already on her way." He shook his head and smiled to himself. "She's a strong woman. She'd have to be though, to be friends with the likes of us, eh?" He looked up at Sherlock, and his expression softened. "You did good out there, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. Of course he'd done good – everyone was alive, right? Well – everyone that counted. Jim and Janine were through with their scheming, weren't they? He just stared at Lestrade.

Greg sighed again. "Not just with the case, Sherlock. After. Rescuing her. Coming with Molly to the hospital. Couldn't have been easy for you – with…emotions, and her crying…I know…er…ah, forget it. Just…good job, right?"

Sherlock blinked and smirked in reply, but inside his mind suddenly sparked with Greg's comment - _couldn't have been easy for you_ – but he was wrong – it was frighteningly easy to be with Molly in that moment – to hold her, and touch her, and _comfort_ her. It was now – standing with Greg, waiting for Molly – _that_ was difficult.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Aaand…now I'm feeding the ego. Are you going to wait for her, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to wait for Molly? Stay with her, for a bit? I've got some calls to make – Scotland Yard, and I'll phone Mrs. Hudson, since you probably haven't done it, and let her know Mary's here in labor, and everyone is fine. And the statements, and…well…Molly doesn't have anyone else here, Sherlock. She doesn't want to be alone, yet. Will you stay with her, at least until I get back?" He gave Sherlock a hard gaze.

"Yes." Sherlock answered simply.

Greg hesitated. "Right. Okay. You won't get bored and leave if she doesn't get back in the next five minutes?"

"No! I – I need to speak with Molly. Tie up loose ends of the case. Get her 'statement'." He said the last words with a mocking distaste.

"Right." Greg looked at him, suspicious again. "Okay. Text me if you need to leave. Mrs. Hudson will probably come visit her, too, after checking in with Mary and John. All right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes."

"Right then," Greg said, walking past Sherlock. He stopped at the door, turning to look back at Sherlock. "And…be nice to her, Sherlock. You might have recovered quickly – course you did – but she's still a bit shaken up. Don't…push too hard, all right?"

Sherlock turned his back in reply, muttering "Whatever you say, Grayson," and settled into the chair by Molly's bed that Greg had just left. Greg shook his head again, not bothering to correct him, and strode down the hospital hallway.

Greg was halfway to the canteen for a cup of coffee, after his many phone calls and a quick check-up on John and Mary, when he realized that his statement pad was missing.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the chair previously occupied by Lestrade and frowned at the statement pad in front of him. It had been extremely simple to pickpocket the detective inspector. Sherlock snorted. He'd tried to convince the Yard for years that pickpocketing performance and prevention should be a component of the academy, but had always met with scoffing and incredulous looks. Perhaps now George would listen to him.

As he looked over the notes, his frown lessened. Molly had done an admirable job at executing her escape. His lips twitched into a half-smirk as he read of her escape from the handcuffs, and sneaking out of her trainers, and her fight on deck.

After reading through Lestrade's shorthand once, he read through it a second time. Yes, her account lined up with his deductions.

But for some reason, he felt apprehension, as well as relief and pride. He was proud of her cleverness and ingenuity, of course, and happy she was alive…but she never would have experienced any of those particularly trying things, if it weren't for him. He frowned. Perhaps she would not want to attempt any sort of…experiment with him, after all. He had not considered that possibility before – that he might want _her_, but she may not want _him_.

Sherlock was brought from the dark path his thoughts had begun to take with the sound of approaching footsteps and a familiar voice awkwardly, repeatedly stammering thanks to the nurse escorting her back to her room.

He straightened in his chair, and prepared himself mentally for her arrival.

* * *

"Thank you, again," Molly smiled warmly at the slightly-past-middle-aged nurse who wheeled her into the room. The hospital staff had insisted she should stay wrapped in blankets for as long as possible, and so they'd collected her and brought her back in a wheelchair. As the nurse backed the chair into the room and turned Molly to face the bed, she started.

"Oh! Another visitor, dear!" The nurse smiled warmly at him, and Sherlock returned it with a cool gaze. He wanted her to leave, but was too busy cataloging Molly's reaction to his presence in the room to come up with a cutting remark or snide observation that would send her running.

When she first saw him, Molly's eyebrows rose pleasantly, and her lips parted slightly before forming a small, nervous smile. She coloured, just a bit, and allowed the nurse to help her into the bed, tucking the blankets in around her, as she greeted him.

"Hello, Sherlock."

So, she was pleased to see him. He could proceed. _Relief – endorphins – buoyancy, again? _He snapped the notepad shut with a sharp jerk of his wrist, and dismissed the nurse with a wave of his hand. The nurse stayed a moment longer, to ask if Molly needed anything, before leaving the room.

His eyes traveled clinically over her body, confirming that a broken thumb, now wrapped in a cast with the rest of her wrist and hand, was the worst of her injuries, and that she would be able to go home soon – tomorrow afternoon, at the latest, before his eyes came to rest on her face.

Her warm brown eyes met his for a full five seconds before her blush deepened and she looked away.

He was suddenly filled with a pleasant warmth and a feeling of quiet focus that usually only accompanied crime-solving or violin-playing. He moved to place the notepad on the little half-table near the hospital bed, and his motion caught Molly's eye.

Of course, she would recognize it as Greg's statement pad. "Did – did Greg give that to you, Sherlock?"

"No," he answered slowly, carefully cataloging the reactions his mind and body were experiencing – _still buoyant – warmth – amazing focus – stillness – extremely…agreeable_, watching her watch him from a nest of soft blankets.

"So…you…stole it?" She tried again, watching his expression soften. It was curious and beautiful – a relaxing of the skin around the eyes, around the lips, a slight slackening of the jaw – and his eyes. Oh, his eyes – they were so intensely focused on her, and it confused her. _Why – why would he look at her like that?_

"Yes," he confirmed, watching with a bemused expression as she floundered to find a space to focus her gaze on. He assisted her by taking her right hand in his own, lightly, carefully resting her fingers on his palm and grazing his thumb on her knuckles. It worked. She stared at their hands, eyes wide, blinking rapidly. _Not an experiment_, Sherlock justified to the scowling Mind John, _merely observation and data collection – and oh! Sensations and tingling and pinpricks where the pads of her fingers met his palm – curious!_ "I needed to know what happened. To you."

"Oh," she breathed, and looked back up at him again. "You – you couldn't just ask me? Or…or 'deduce' me?" A teasing smile crept up.

He smiled, just a bit, at her, too. "You weren't here, at the moment."

She blinked and looked back at their hands. Sherlock's other hand now covered hers – her good hand was sandwiched, quite pleasantly, between his. She barely dared to move. "Right," she whispered.

_Why – why was he doing this? Everyone was safe – she was safe – was this – was this another thank you? For what? For not dying? Or maybe – an apology? For not – for not choosing to…save her, first? For arriving, late? _

_Whatever the reason, it felt…nice. Too nice. Oh, her heart!_

Molly swallowed nervously. Sherlock noticed the shift in her expression – from pleasant surprise to nervous confusion, and acted accordingly.

"I'm very glad you're alive, Molly Hooper." His voice, normally formal and detached, was attempting to be warm and sincere, and was just a little hesitant, and caused her to meet his eyes. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile, and her breath caught in her chest.

"M-me too," she exhaled, and smiled nervously.

They sat, in slightly awkward silence, and she could feel Sherlock tense, in his hands and in his face, as she bit her lip and tried to work this experience through.

_He doesn't – doesn't need to apologize. I mean…he…it's not my fault, and it's not Sherlock's fault, it's Jim's fault, and well…he'd know that…is it a thank you, then?_

And Molly remembered, belatedly, that she meant to thank _him_, for saving her life, on the boat.

"Thank you!" She blurted out suddenly, turning to look him full in the face. Sherlock started a bit at her outburst, and his grip on her hand loosened.

"For _what_?" He asked, confused.

She pulled her hand away from his, waving it through the air for emphasis. "For…for the lessons. Self-defense. You…you saved my life, Sherlock. I…" she blushed again, looking down at her other, broken hand. "I never would have…escaped, if it weren't for you. The…handcuffs, the fight…it was _you _who taught me. I…remembered. It was like…you were in my head." She mumbled the last bit, then looked at him again. "So…thank you."

He cleared his throat before answering. "You're welcome."

_Nearly all the signs – her wide eyes, increased heart rate, flushed skin, indicated that she enjoyed his presence, and this… 'hand-holding'. And his own slightly elevated heart rate, paired with the warmth and acuity of his senses, indicated that he also enjoyed it. So why did she pull her hand away?_

Sherlock frowned, and very gently, very deliberately took her hand back in between his own. _Ah – sensation of emptiness – too light, without – her hand, warm – in his. Interesting._ He watched her face for signs of acceptance or rejection.

She blinked in confusion, but didn't pull away. "Sherlock," she said slowly, eyes on their hands, "what is this about?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she did her best to squash the hope rising in it. _Don't be silly, Molly. Don't be – don't be - _

And the words Sherlock had planned so carefully, about chemical reactions and synapses and neurons and experiments, failed him temporarily. He had two choices – pretend it was nothing – a thank-you, a comfort, as a friend - or open himself up to her. He frowned at their hands, unsure of which to choose. He looked up, to gather data from her face and expression, and was met with the sweetly furrowed brow of his pathologist – his Molly.

She was confused, yes, but – her eyes, and lopsided smile, and earnest countenance – they all served to encourage him. He could tell she _wanted_ to understand, she was open to listening, to hearing him out.

"It's…about…" he swallowed once, a sharp prick of uneasiness in his stomach catching him off guard.

_There is nothing to be nervous about. If she…doesn't…want this, then you're just back where you were before. No worse off. Nothing lost. In fact…might be better, that way. But…only one way to know, for sure._

"It's about…" he closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, focusing on the feel of her hand in his and the warm clarity he'd been experiencing just moments before. And so, after a moment to regain his composure, Sherlock Holmes made his choice. When he opened his eyes, he did not attempt to hide himself – his thoughts, his emotions, his feelings - from Molly. It was a subtle thing – but he trusted that Molly Hooper would notice.

She did.

The moment he let his guard down, she noticed. She'd been watching him think, and when he opened his eyes – it was like an unfolding – like a falling away. It started in his eyes – a slight relaxing of the lines around his eyes, a slight dilation of the pupils – and then the tension in his shoulders fell away and the hum of nervous energy that usually accompanied him lowered an octave.

It was a lovely gift, and in an almost unconscious reaction to it, Molly let her guard down as well. She relaxed, and it may have been the mixture of exhaustion and the rush that comes from surviving a near-death experience, but she just didn't care anymore about squashing the hope in her chest, or convincing herself that she could never have Sherlock, or protecting her heart from trauma. At that moment, she opened herself up to the possibility that perhaps, someday, Sherlock Holmes could love her, and perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, or even years from now, she'd regret opening her heart again, but not tonight.

They stared at each other – reading each other silently – and for once, there was no winning or losing or intimidation on either side – it was just intimate and honest communication without talking.

And then Sherlock broke the silence. Molly might have called it a magical, or miraculous moment, the one they'd just shared – but Sherlock would have scoffed at either of those sentimental words – he was still a man of science, after all.

"When I thought you had died, it was extremely unpleasant." His voice broke Molly out of her reverie, and she refocused on listening, a small smile twitching at her lips.

Ignoring her amusement – _why on earth would she find that amusing?_ – Sherlock continued. "I found that my heart rate was increasingly irregular, my fine motor control was lacking, my respiratory system found it difficult to function…I felt dizzy, weak…and…my mind - " he cleared his throat – "I found it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything, except the fact that…you were dead. Obviously, you weren't, but at the time, the probability indicated that you were. The affects your apparent death had on my physical, mental, and emotional state were immediate and adverse."

He looked up at her, and found that her expression had changed to one of intense concentration and sympathy. Before she could apologize for causing him grief – because she _would_ apologize for that, he was certain – he continued. "It was obvious at once that you were an important part of my life, and that your loss would be missed immensely. And when you appeared, clinging to the ladder of the boat, I was…not angry, but…concerned. Not angry you were alive," he corrected quickly, noticing her confused, slightly hurt expression, "but angry – concerned - that I had allowed you to become such an…important part of my life. Of me."

He focused a very serious gaze on her face, and held her, breathless, with his eyes. "It was apparent to me that I was on very dangerous ground, Molly Hooper. Loosing you was…extremely detrimental to my mental acuity. But the moment I pulled you onto the boat, and you…we were together, every adverse physical reaction ceased nearly immediately. My heartbeat became regular, I quickly regained control of my faculties, my mind cleared, and I was able to focus."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "As a rational man, I should have seen to your safety and pulled away, distancing myself from the affects of…of this physical-emotional connection. I almost did. But I also reviewed past interactions, and realized that although…this…connection to you could be extremely dangerous, I also realized that it has been very beneficial, to myself, in the past. Countless times you have helped me, Molly Hooper, and on more than one occasion, you have saved my life. You know of at least two occasions, of course – the fall, and the time I stayed with you, after the fall. There were more times, when…" here he paused, embarrassed.

Molly nodded, encouraging, lips parted slightly and eyebrows raised in a sort of shock. She was still processing, silently, everything that Sherlock was telling her. Confessing.

_Did she suffer a concussion in the blast? Is she in a coma? Dreaming? Asleep? She thinks she must be._

"…when you helped me…much in the same way I helped you escape Moriarty's boat. Knowledge, advice, imparted…internally, at a moment of crisis. I have come to realize through John, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and yourself, that…caring, about others, is not necessarily a disadvantage. It can be, but it doesn't _have_ to be. You have all been…better to me, more to me, than I deserve. And I may not acknowledge it, often, but…you all matter, immensely, and I am…grateful for your care."

He paused again, still holding her gaze with his own. "I…I…have a deep regard for you, Molly Hooper."

She nodded, and smiled gently, but her heart fell, just a bit, at his words. _Just a thank you, then. A lovely, lovely, platonic thank-you._ "I…I have a deep regard for you as well, Sherlock." She blushed, and broke away from his gaze.

"Yes – no," he looked away for a moment, frustrated. "I mean…with all of my…with all of you – you have all helped me in different ways, and I acknowledge and appreciate that help. My regard for all of you manifests itself in different ways. And…Moriarty knew what he was doing. He knew that hurting those close to me would…have a negative affect on my abilities. And everyone's pain – it did affect me. But yours – yours affected me – it affected me the most. What does that mean?"

She blinked, blushing again. _Platonic…platonic…friendly love_…she reminded herself. "I-"

"No – rhetorical question," he said quickly, "I've already formed a hypothesis on that. With everyone else – well, with those literal handful of – well, all of you-"

"It's – s'okay to call us friends, Sherlock," Molly said softly, smiling again at his reluctance to admit that he had _friends_.

"Right…with my literal handful of _friends_ – I enjoy limited amounts of their mental and occasionally emotional company. But with you, I also enjoy…" he swallowed, closing his eyes once again (_Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Doubtful?)_ and opening them a moment later. "I enjoy this." He gestured to his hands holding hers. "I enjoy your physical presence as well."

"Hmm?!" Molly made a small, startled noise in her throat, and blushed again, more readily.

"Not sure when _that _particular phenomena began, but…I also find the sight of you and your scent quite stimulating."

Her eyes widened, and her face was lovely shade of tomato. "My…scent?"

"Well, not right at this moment, obviously…still smell like river water and oil, but generally speaking your everyday scent is quite pleasing. To me. I'm not speaking for the general populace."

And now Molly closed her eyes, thinking. _Not platonic…not…what? _"What…what does that mean?"

"Come now, Molly Hooper. Ignorance does not become you." But his voice was gentle, and…_nervous?_

And she was hesitant to answer. "You…love me?" And it was barely a whisper, and she stared at his hands, still entwined with her own, unblinking, afraid to hear the answer.

"I…," Sherlock began, but though he'd admitted to himself that he very well may love her, he could not bring himself to say those words aloud – not yet. "You count – you are the only woman, ever, to count - and maybe…with me – maybe that's the same thing."

He looked at her, pleasantly surprised at the way her gentle grip tightened as she pressed her palm to his and even more pleasantly surprised by his reaction to it - _all of his energy focused on that single point of connection - _willing her silently to lift her face so he could study more of her reaction, when the loud voice of Mrs. Hudson in the hallway interrupted their quiet conversation.

"Oooh, Greg! It's a girl! A lovely little lady! You'll have to come see her, when you're ready – and he did what? He – your statement pad? Well that _is _Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson paused as she and Inspector Lestrade reached the doorway.

And Sherlock's gaze darted between the doorway and Molly's now startled face, and his shoulders tensed and once again he was Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, cool and indifferent to the world. But - he hesitated, for a fraction of a second, looking uncertainly at their hands.

And Molly - bless her heart - it was a testament to how well she knew him, her own gentle and patient and selfess nature - she smiled at him, squeezed his hand knowingly, and released him. "You...you count, to me too, Sherlock. Always have -"

Sherlock returned her smile with a quick, tight one of his own, before the door opened, and he turned to deduce Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, tossing the statement pad carelessly towards the Inspector and making a comment about the ease with which he'd been pickpocketed.

And Molly thought silently to herself, as Sherlock made an excuse to leave the room..."-_always will_."

And Sherlock paused suddenly at the doorway, turning to give her an almost imperceptible nod, and a small, knowing smile, before resettling his features into something more akin to the nonchalance and boredom he usually displayed. His mind was whirring, however, with the success of his conversation with Molly and what it might mean for the future. He had many scenarios to relive, rework, and test in his mind palace, and a conversation or two he needed to have with John.

Molly's face was positively radiant for the remainder of the evening, and her own heart was overflowing with love given and received.

* * *

**Well...what do you think? **

**It's not over yet, folks...there are still a few lessons Sherlock needs to learn in regards to romantic love, especially. :) **

**Please let me know what you think. Thank you again!**


	20. In Which Time is Love

**Hello! Thank you all for your reviews - I took a risk with the feely-ness of that last chapter, but I'm glad it was well-received. Thank you for your comments and suggestions! :) Sherlock still has a lot to learn, however, so after the adrenaline and endorphins it's back to basics with him in this chapter. **

**I do not own Sherlock. Title for this chapter inspired by one of my favorite country singers, Josh Turner. He's got a fantastic voice, and I love this song. **

**There are also a few nods to Doyle's Sherlock in this chapter. Props to you if you get them. :D  
**

**Also...the name of Baby Watson gave me a great deal of grief. If you have any better ideas for her name, by all means, give me some suggestions. I feel like they certainly would not name their daughter 'Sherlock' - they are John and Mary, very traditional names, after all, even if they're not very traditional people - but...they would, perhaps give a nod in the general direction of his name. Let me know your thoughts on that.**

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

_Chapter 20, In Which Time is Love_

Sherlock was about to make his escape – _slide between the unfaithful doctor with a Diet Coke addiction and the sniveling child with a head cold who spent far too many hours watching the telly, then duck behind the well-timed wheelchair-bound postal worker before making a mad dash to the revolving doors – _when he was interrupted, once again, by the loud, nagging voice of Mrs. Martha Hudson. _Should have known she'd come out after him._

"Sherlock! Where are you going? I'll show you where the baby is. Such a sweet -! Sherlock? Sherlock! Well!"

_Bullocks. The well-timed wheelchair had passed._ He gritted his teeth and stiffened as the older woman gripped his shirtsleeve. He'd been planning on escaping the hospital shortly after leaving Molly Hooper's examining room.

While the sensations he'd experienced in the short time he was with her had been stimulating, enjoyable, and curious, he really had experienced all of the sentiment he could handle for one day. Perhaps for the rest of the week, as well. He also had his brother to converse with (as much as he hated the thought, he _did_ need to know what had happened with Janine, and his brother would give him a much cleaner, more fact-oriented story than John), a mind palace to organize, and plans to make regarding the investigation of the criminal network Moriarty and Janine had recently begun. If he had any luck at all (not that he believed in _luck_), the web would still be in its infancy and would take no more than a few solid arrests to break down. While his mind appreciated the challenge, his recently developed and strengthened _connections_ with his…_friends_ required that this web be brought down quickly and cleanly, for all of their sakes.

And then – _Mrs. Hudson_.

"Sherlock! Are you _listening_?" Mrs. Hudson tsked impatiently. She made a disapproving sound from the back of her throat when Sherlock moved to pull away from her. "Oh no – you! You _don't_. Years, I've waited for this – a new baby!– and you'll _not_ spoil it by -"

"Mrs. Hudson, you have not been waiting _years_ for this. Mary's only been pregnant for nine _months_ – a little less than that, actually. Eight months and twenty-six days, to be precise." When Sherlock glared down at her and realized that for once it was having little to no effect on his landlord-not-a-housekeep (she was already fiercely protective of that child, and determined that he should love it, too), he changed tactics. "I am fatigued, and require food and sleep. Perhaps you could convey to the Watsons-"

Mrs. Hudson tsked again. "I'll do no such thing, Sherlock Holmes! And you've gone days without eating or sleeping before – one little visit will not cause you to drop dead – _then _you can go home and sleep and eat. I want to see my boys with my little girl!"

And she beamed at him, but her grip did not lessen. Her eyes were bright and dared him to defy her in this. Sherlock briefly considered feigning to accompany her and then making a mad dash through the many hospital corridors he knew like the back of his hand until he'd lost her.

Almost as if she'd read his mind, she tightened her already firm grip on his arm, then slid her right arm together with his left until they were linked at the elbows. She still held firmly to his left arm with her own left hand. "There now," she said cheerfully, patting his arm affectionately and then gripping it firmly once again. "Ten minutes, Sherlock. That's all I ask. Ten minutes, and then you can go home to Baker Street and start dodging about in your brain attic again."

"Mind palace," he snapped. "Mind palace. And five minutes, beginning now."

Mrs. Hudson's smile fell as she realized he was serious.

"Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds…" he intoned calmly.

She fairly dragged him through the hallways until they reached John and Mary's room. They made it in less than thirty seconds, which was impressive, even by Sherlock's standards.

* * *

John and Mary looked up from their baby as Mrs. Hudson dragged Sherlock into the room by the elbow, then detached herself from him and stood near the door, beaming at the room. "Well now, Sherlock. Have a look," she encouraged.

Sherlock took in John's face, softened with emotion and weary with the exhaustion of the past two days, and Mary's own face, radiant and tired, and then moved just a step forward to see the tiny bundle in Mary's arms.

Mary noticed, and turned the child so that her scrunched pink face was visible to the consulting detective. She'd already been cleaned, weighed, charted by the hospital staff, and Sherlock could see immediately that she would have Mary's eyes and John's lips. John's lips – that was unfortunate.

She let out a healthy cry at being exposed for so long, and Mary pulled her back to her bosom, shushing her softly and smiling prettily at her little girl.

John grinned at Sherlock. "Well?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you expect congratulations are in order."

"Well – yeah. Actually, I do." John's grin hadn't left his face. Nothing Sherlock said could possibly take away any of the joy John was feeling at this particular moment in time.

"She appears to be a healthy, adequately formed child. Congratulations on your progeny, John, although nature and Mary have done most of the work, at this point. So I suppose I should be congratulating Mary as well. Congratulations," he said seriously, lips twitching into a sort-of smile.

The tiny child let out another cry, this one louder and more demanding.

Sherlock paused. "She also has a very…healthy scream."

Mary laughed, low and pleasant, and smiled at Sherlock. "Thanks for trying, love. Thanks for trying."

John smiled fondly at Sherlock, too. "Yeah, you've done worse" he admitted. His gaze shifted to his wife and daughter, then back to Sherlock. "Want to know what we've named her? Ma-"

"Madeline Willow Watson," Sherlock smirked.

John gave Sherlock a mocking glare, but couldn't quite force his lips into a full scowl. The result was quite comical. "Yes, well…hmph…we told you, Sherlock's not a girl's name, but Willow…"

"Is an appropriate substitute for William. Yes," Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. _Too much sentiment for one day, but – _"Thank you." Good. It was sincere.

_There. Five minutes._

He gave John a small smile and nodded soundly, using up the last stores of his patience and compassion, and turned, sidestepping Mrs. Hudson and escaping the hospital without so much a backward glance over his shoulder.

Luckily, John and Mary took his swift departure as a sign that he was overwhelmed with gratitude and needed a moment to himself. Otherwise, there may have been more difficulty gaining their assistance when Sherlock mucked up the beginnings of his sort-of relationship with Molly after a mere seven days.

* * *

Molly Hooper woke to the blare of her alarm and sunlight streaming in through a crack in the curtains. She grumbled incoherently to herself and rolled over, hitting the snooze button with expert aim and a hard thwack from her cast.

_Ouch_.

Something rubbed against the small of her back, and she started from her half-woken state.

_Toby_.

"Ah, Toby," she mumbled, and turned to scratch his ears. He purred loudly, and when her hand stilled with sleepiness again, he meowed indignantly and butted her hand with his head.

"All right," she yawned, and threw her covers off with a flourish.

Toby meowed again, but the sound was muffled by the sheet, blanket, and quilt, now covering him like a kitty-burrito.

"Oops," Molly giggled sleepily. "Sorry, Toby." She stretched, and moved the covers enough for him to escape. He jumped lightly to the floor, and moved quickly to her bedroom door. It was cracked open, and she heard him meowing impatiently in the hallway for his breakfast.

She stretched, long and luxurious, for moment before getting out of bed and wrapping her dressing gown around her. She smiled to herself. Today, two days after being released from the hospital, was the day she was returning to work at St. Barts. She was looking forward to returning to the familiar routine of work, and the familiar routine of being regularly interrupted from said work by Sherlock Holmes.

As she continued preparing for the day, she sighed and nibbled at her lower lip – whether from excitement or nervousness, she couldn't say. _Anticipation, perhaps?_

She had not seen Sherlock since he'd left her in the examining room with Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Mrs. Hudson had chased after him, intending to show him to John and Mary and Baby Madeline, and Greg had stayed with her until Mrs. Hudson returned, only fifteen minutes later. When she'd received the okay from hospital staff, she'd gone to visit the happy family as well, and she'd been released the next day. She took two days off of work to collect herself, and now – now she was returning.

It wasn't that she expected Sherlock to visit her again in the hospital, or even to come by her flat. Molly Hooper understood Sherlock Holmes in a way few people did, and knew that he would want to finish looking into the Moriarty case, and searching out any of his criminal associates, and cataloging everything in his 'mind palace'. She also realized that his confessing that he 'held a deep regard' for her would not change his priorities – she was high on the list now - she recognized that - and it meant a great deal to her that he had cared enough to show her that, but for all her hopes, she tried to be a very realistic person, and knew that work still came first for Sherlock – at least for the time being.

Her attempt at realism did not keep her from hoping, however, that maybe, just maybe…he would be at Bart's today, carrying out experiments and that perhaps – perhaps she might catch him looking at her with that softened smile that crinkled his eyes again. Not the intimate look from the hospital – _no – she blushed _– but the smile he gave her when wishing her well with Tom. She dared not hope that he hold her hand again. That would be far too much for even Molly to hope for.

She didn't see him that day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

As she left her shift at St. Bart's Thursday afternoon, she couldn't help her heart sinking in her chest.

Well.

He'd said she'd counted, and hadn't contradicted her when she said he loved her, but…perhaps she had misunderstood. Perhaps Sherlock loved her the same way he loved John, and Mary, and just also enjoyed her physical presence as well.

"_I also find the sight of you, and your scent, quite stimulating_."

For all she knew, he found the scent of ether and lemon disinfectant stimulating because it reminded him of the sterile environment of the lab.

Bother.

For all her understanding of Sherlock Holmes, she didn't quite understand this predicament she'd let herself get into.

Hopefully he'd show up soon and she could attempt to _deduce_ him herself. She considered texting him, for all of a nanosecond, before dismissing that as appearing desperate and clingy and horribly _humiliating_.

She then considered texting John or Mary, for approximately two seconds longer, before dismissing that solution as well. They were busy with a new baby, and what would she ask them? If they'd seen Sherlock? She could practically hear the thoughts running around in their heads already.

_Molly, why do you want to know where Sherlock is?_

_If you need someone to tell him off for messing about the lab again, I'll be happy to pass on the message._

_Molly, don't fall for him –again- just because he rescued you. _Pity.

_Molly, don't let him manipulate you again._ Pity.

_Molly – don't – Molly – don't – Molly – don't. _Pity.

She closed her eyes and scowled. She counted, and with him – he loved her. She was certain he loved her.

She just wasn't certain exactly _how_ he loved her.

Bother.

* * *

"And you're quite certain she's given us everything?"

"All that can be expected, brother. She and 'Jim' kept more secrets from each other than you and I. Family ties, at their best. Not to fear, though, Sherlock. There weren't more than twenty criminals in their employ, and over half of them were disposable, mediocre thugs at best. My men are taking care of it, now. I can offer you Duncan Ross, if you'd like to have a distraction. You could use the practice, brother. Milverton should have taken you mere hours, and it took you nearly three days."

Sherlock snorted. "Milverton had a boat as well. Boats," he muttered darkly. "Why is it always boats, now?"

"Yes, well. Ross?"

Sherlock dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. "A mere six, Mycroft. Not worth my time."

"And you have something better to spend your _valuable_ time on?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Anything spent away from _your_ insufferable influence is time more wisely spent."

"A thank-you for securing your pardon would be appropriate." Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Thank you, brother, for poking your rotund nose into my affairs."

"Anytime, brother dear. Anytime. And Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"I should like to remind you, in light of recent events, that caring is _not_, and will never be, an advantage."

Sherlock smirked at his brother. "A fascinating notion, Mycroft. I have recently been looking into the scientific validity of that statement. My findings are, as of yet, inconclusive. I will _not_ keep you apprised of the situation."

Mycroft watched his brother leave, and a smile crept onto his face.

Any onlooker would have declared it extremely unsettling.

"Sir?" Anthea approached moments later, fingers whirring over the smart device in her hands.

"I do believe a call to my mother is in order, Anthea."

* * *

"Hullo, Molly. Finish up on Mrs. Fitzwilliam?"

Molly sighed and finished signing her name on the paperwork of Mrs. Yolanda Fitzwilliam. "Yeah, Greg. Just finishing up now." She sighed again, and handed the files over, staring at the liver of the woman, now in a sterilized silver bowl on the counter. She sighed again.

"Awful lot of sighing for an old bat like her," Greg teased kindly.

"What? Oh…yes. I was just…thinking." Molly smiled and looked at Greg. "It's…nice to be back into the routine of things, again."

"Yeah," he agreed pleasantly, then shifted. "Speaking of routine, has Sherlock been 'round lately? It's been almost a week since…well, it's been almost a week. Not that I've gotten anything particularly exciting for him, but…always like to keep apprised of the situation with Sherlock, eh?" He gave her a knowing grin.

She smiled stiffly back at him. "Yeah. Haven't seen him. How are John and Mary and Madeline? I haven't really heard from them, either. Not that I expect to, really, but…" she let her voice trail off awkwardly.

Greg gave her a strange once-over. She usually wasn't so…quick to change the subject, when it came to Sherlock. Especially since Molly and Sherlock had become friends, after his return. "Er…yeah. Good, I expect. Mrs. Hudson's right pleased with Maddie. I've gotten a few texts from her…with pictures…she is a cute kid."

"Yeah, she is," Molly smiled, thoughts turning to the Watson baby.

"Well," Greg sighed. "Back to work, for me. Have a good one, Molly."

"Yeah," she answered, belatedly. "You too, Greg."

* * *

Sherlock was at Baker Street, in his mind palace, focusing on the Moriarty case, making sure that he hadn't missed anything that would jeopardize the safety of his…the safety of the people who counted. He was looking forward to an evening of peace, perhaps a bout on the violin, a bath, and some food.

He was interrupted from his musings on the connections between Janine and Duncan Ross when he noticed the door to his flat opening and closing.

"I've already ordered takeaway, Mrs. Hudson. I do not require tea."

"Well good, 'cause I'm not bloody getting you any," a warm voice greeted him.

Ah, John. Not necessarily a welcome distraction, but not un-welcome, either. Sherlock opened his eyes.

John sat down in his old armchair, still unmoved from all those months ago when Sherlock had moved it in anticipation of his relocation back to Baker Street. "What did you order, then? I hope it's Chinese. Egg rolls? Mate, I could go for an egg roll right now." He sighed pleasantly, and rubbed his face tiredly with his hand.

_Eyes – hair – clothes, unkempt – vomit stain, near his right shoulder – primarily milky substance – _"I hardly think Mary would approve of your 'escape' while Madeline is going through a bout of colic."

John froze, then chuckled. "Right. Well, she got to escape for three hours earlier today – Harry came by and took her out for a massage – so I get to 'escape' myself while the girls take care of Maddie. Surprised you missed that, Sherlock. Not slipping, are you? Don't let Molly find out you're loosing your edge," he teased.

Sherlock frowned. Obviously the giddiness of fatherhood had not worn off yet, and paired with the exhaustion of a colicky baby, John was in a sort of mood that was easily turned from high to low in an instant. Best to proceed carefully. _Of course I noticed. I thought it best not to mention Harry's recent binge – nope. A bit 'not good'_. Ah, he was getting better at this. "I'm not 'loosing my edge', John. And why would Molly care?"

John smirked at him. "Well, Sherlock. It was a bit of a joke – you know, since she likes you, and all, and you – well, have you decided…how you…you know, _feel_ about her?"

"Of course. I relayed my regard for her at the hospital shortly after speaking with you."

John stared at him. "You what?"

"I relayed my regard for her at the hospital shortly after speaking with you," Sherlock repeated, face expressionless, tone casual, as if discussing the fact that he stopped by to ask Molly for another eyeball or toe.

"Your…regard?" John's brain seemed to be having difficulty accepting the news.

"That's what I said, John. Has your offspring's healthy crying made you hard of hearing?"

"No," John shook his head. "So you…told her you loved her?"

"She seemed to summarize it as such, yes."

There was silence for a beat. "And?" John prodded.

"And I confirmed that she counted. She told me that I counted, to her, as well."

"Wait…what?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

John leaned forward, scrunching his eyebrows together, trying hard to make sense of the limited information Sherlock was giving him. "So…was it…?"

Sherlock scowled at John. "Although I have several questions for you regarding relationships, I have a lot of work to see to at the moment, regarding Moriarty's case. You are welcome to stay for dinner, of course, and I see you've brought your laptop, perhaps to blog, but please refrain from asking about my personal life for the time being." He sniffed indignantly.

"Now, wait – wait," John held up his hands, snorting. "You – you, who've deduced the _hell_ out of every woman I've ever dated, every friend I've ever had, every _stranger_ we've ever encountered – now that _you_ may finally have a shot at a relationship resembling something _human_ – you want me to _refrain from asking about your personal life?"_

"Very good, John. You understand perfectly."

"No, no! You'll not change the subject that easily. So you told her she counted? Counted – romantically?"

"Counted emotionally, intellectually, and – physically," Sherlock opened one eye to glare at John. "And if that is construed as _romanticism-_" he sneered.

"Well, yeah, Sherlock – yes, it is. Physically – _huh. _Did you – did you _kiss_ her?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of _course_ not, John."

"Did you _hug_ her?"

"No."

"Did you hold her hand?"

Sherlock's silence answered for him.

"You held her hand. Did _she_ say anything, Sherlock?"

"Again, she returned the _sentiment_. I count to her as well." He shifted in his seat, all thoughts of a pleasant, quiet evening of solitude abandoned. John's visit was quickly moving from 'not unwelcome' to 'decidedly unwelcome'.

"Right, okay. Right. Anything else happen?"

"No. We were interrupted by Jeremy and Mrs. Hudson, I saw Madeline, I left, I've been working on the conclusion of the Moriarty case, and now you've interrupted what _should_ have been a very productive evening."

"So, you told her she counted, she told you _you_ counted – of course you do, she's got the patience of a saint and the heart of a lion, no other way she could handle all you've done unless she loved you – and you haven't seen her since?"

"Correct."

John paused for a moment, lips pressed together.

His mood was shifting from high to low. Sherlock frowned. What could possibly have happened? Perhaps he was angry that Sherlock had insinuated that John was counter-productive to his thought process at the moment.

"Have you called her?"

"No."

John drew a deep breath through his nose, and blew it out in an angry snort. "Texted?"

"No. Why would I?"

"So you told her you _loved_ her, implied romantically – how you managed to convey _romance_ is beyond me – and it's been – a week? – and you haven't contacted her _at all_ since then?"

"Correct. Really, John, you've established your talent at summarizing a series of events quite well. I believe you've proven you're proficient at that particular skill."

John glared at him. "Sherlock, I told you to think _carefully_ about how you felt about Molly. Do you care for her as a friend?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. "Of course. That should be apparent, even to you."

"And do you care for her as _more_ than a friend?"

"I…am interested in pursuing further data on the subject." _Yes!_ But Sherlock's irritation at John's interrogation was making him taciturn and sullen with his friend.

"No…nope! Sherlock!" John tensed, balling his hands into fists. "I said _no_ experimenting on Molly! She's not an experiment! Not something you can manipulate at will and reach a conclusion about 'dispassionately'. She's not – science – dating, and relationships – they're not _science_, Sherlock!"

He sighed, exhasperated, and glared pointedly at his best friend. "I told you you'd better give her several _damn_ good reasons for her to consider a relationship with you. Have you done that?"

Sherlock stared at him coolly, but the bob of his Adam's apple gave him away.

"You haven't. You haven't – of course not. You haven't even _spoken_ to her since confessing your undying love for her-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I would never say something so _sentimental_."

"Of course not! You – you're _mental_! How do you think she feels, right now, Sherlock? After you told her all that, and then haven't bothered to even check up on her by text?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, slightly confused now. "I imagine much the same way I feel."

John eyed him carefully from across the room. "And how _do_ you feel, Sherlock?"

"At the moment, tired and hungry from a week's worth of work tracking down and dismantling the more imminent threats from Moriarty's newest criminal network. Physically, that is how I feel, and as Molly has been back to work for three days, I imagine that at this moment, she also feels tired and hungry, since she is probably just arriving home from her shift."

John glared at him. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock sighed.

"Sherlock, she's probably been…expecting you. At least expecting you to show up at Bart's to do some sort of experiments. When you tell someone you…care about them, and then don't even bother to _contact _them for a week…well, it sort of sends the _opposite _message, doesn't it?"

"I told her she counted. If that changes at any point in the future, I'll be sure to let her know."

John stared at him, an incredulous expression displayed across his face, and burst out laughing in slightly angry disbelief. "You'll let her know! If your feelings change!"

"Yes. It would only be fair."

"Fair – fair! Sherlock," John gasped, "that is _not_ how love works."

"Well then, please enlighten me, since you're _such_ an expert," Sherlock sneered.

John narrowed his eyes at the man sitting nonchalantly across from him. "Sherlock Holmes. She's a grown woman, and knows what she's getting into – but if you bloody break Molly's heart because you're too selfish or stubborn or _scared_ to face the fact that you'll have to spend time with her and do _ordinary normal human _things than you'd better bloody be ready to face the consequences. And they won't be pretty, Sherlock. I know at least three people, myself included, who would be willing to give you a right bloody nose if you treat her like you're treating me right now."

Sherlock's face was blank. "I would never do that."

"Never do what?" John asked warningly.

"Never treat Molly like I'm treating you right now."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because she wouldn't be interrogating me right now, when I'm trying to focus on completing a case."

John sat back in his chair. "So you'd prefer her company right now?"

"Apparently, she would not be willing to give it, since I've not spoken to her in a week."

"Well," John said, biting his cheek, studying the man across from him. "Well."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both deep in thought. When John realized Sherlock would not ask him for advice, but kept darting his frowning gaze from the violin case beside him to John, he spoke. "Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"Just spend time with her. If you…prefer her company, spend time with her. If you don't want to use words, that's fine. Well, you'll need to use words, eventually, but – to start – just spend some bloody time with her, yeah? Go see her at Bart's. Do some experiments. _With_ her…not on her. _With _her. Invite her over to discuss one of your cases. And eventually, when you're _not_ in a piss-poor mood, do something with her that _she _likes to do, right?"

"I'm not going to ask her on a _date_, John."

"Did I say date? I just said _spend some time with her_. And Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes locked in a sort of battle.

"Don't be an idiot."

"John, I'm _never_ an idiot."

John snorted, and much to Sherlock's relief, they were quickly distracted by the arrival of the take-away and John's enthusiasm for the egg rolls.

* * *

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**Thank you for reading.**


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